


Vigilantes

by springandbysummerfall



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragonball Z
Genre: Blood and Violence, Drama, F/M, Graphic Novel, Romance, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springandbysummerfall/pseuds/springandbysummerfall
Summary: A masked crusader, the Blue Menace, is on a mission from God to take down Red Ribbon Enterprises and avenge her father. But when another masked vigilante sweeps into her life, can she balance falling for him with revenge, and without sacrificing his trust? In the style of film noir, with graphic violence and adult themes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote this story in 2012 (woah) and have just now transferred it from ffnet to my catalog here at the Archive. Back then, AO3 was a hopeful but improbable dream and ffnet was The Place for story traffic. I figured it was high time my Archive collection was fully represented.

Pt. 1

  
I. "Kami's Work"

  
Bulma's hair whipped her face as her head lolled against the outside wall of Red Ribbon Enterprises, thousands of feet above a churning, glowing sea of night life. There was the crunch of glass pressed between the short-piled office carpet and the heel of a boot, and Bulma whimpered, tears tracing her blood-streaked cheeks and dampening the hair at her temples. The stars blinked at her from the violet night sky. She felt someone kneel beside her. They _tsked_ , and the thin fabric of a handkerchief swiped at her face, taking extra care at the corner of her mouth, where a broken tooth and a cracked lip seeped blood. Her suit suddenly seemed too tight; she couldn't breathe. She tried to bat the hand away. She tried to reach for her katana, curled at her side and scintillating with plaster and broken glass.

The office desk that had been thrown through the wall of windows had carved out a path for her once she had been shot in the shoulder, spinning out and listing on wobbly knees until she was backhanded with the butt of the gun. The revolver had sent her sprawling through the rubble, her head hanging out the broken window, like she were skidding into home base. Where had this all gone so wrong? Her eyes stung with tears and her mouth pulled into an anguished grimace as the first drops of rain from a spring storm smacked her forehead.

"Now, now. Don't cry. You can't help that I'm still alive. I am, after all, second to none."

At the sound of the roughened voice, sobs wracked her. She heard the ring of her katana as it was picked up. A peal of thunder quaked through the room and shimmied up her spine.

Panic bolted through her as she heard him stand and lower the tip of her sleek sword, pressing it tenderly against her throat, the blade singing lightly.

"Wouldn't it be so easy to lop your pretty head off right now and have all of Capsule Corporation to myself?" There was a thump near her side as the man dropped to his knee. "You think you are doing Kami's work," he rasped against her ear, "dressing up and playing Super Girl. But whores," he sneered, "don't get into Heaven."

Bulma's spit was thick in her mouth, and she clenched her fists. Summoning all her pain and need in one angry breath, she cried out. "Vegeta!"

A low snarl sounded as another peal of thunder rocked the building, and a hand closed around her throat and squeezed. "You swore an oath! You made a fucking promise!" As black dots began flickering in her vision, the hand let go. "And to think I was so fond of you." He snorted, as though finishing her off were suddenly not worth his time.

"I never betrayed you," she whispered, following it with a rattling sigh.

The man clutched at the front of her spandex suit and hoisted her up, shaking her easily in the air above the window's ledge. "What was that? Lying again?"

Bulma's head snapped back and forth dangerously before dangling on her chest, glass falling out of her hair like glitter. Her eyelids fluttered and she struggled to look into the dark eyes of the maniac whose hands shook her like a rag doll, but had been so solicitous when they made love.

"I said, I never betrayed you," she continued hoarsely. Their eyes connected, warring black and blue. "Yamcha...set us up. Red...lies. And...Vegeta?"

He glared at her, seething, but those ebony eyes that had so long ago captured her heart gave her one last, desperate chance to fix them.

"The baby is yours."

His eyes widened with shock and his grip loosened. They both watched, dumbfounded, as she slid out of his grasp, her upper body tilting back helplessly, the backs of her knees knocking against the window ledge and sliding out of it with the sickening rip of skin and spandex. She absorbed Vegeta's horrified expression as she fell backwards and began plummeting to her death, the wind picking up speed and ripping at her hair.

"I love you," she mouthed, before the upward sweep of his hair and his dark eyes merged with the shadow of the window, the hundreds of darkened windows that now queued swiftly past her like a gloomy reel of film.

Bulma stared transfixed at the night sky as the wind buffeted her outstretched arms and wondered if this is what Heaven would feel like.

 

II. "Do-Gooders"

  
Bulma Briefs absently put her hair up into a high, disheveled bun and shoved her feet into her sneakers. She gave herself a cursory glance in the hallway mirror as she hurried past and snatched her coffee mug off the kitchen counter. Grabbing up her book and keys off the couch and popping her front door open with her foot, Bulma pulled on a slouchy jacket while stuffing her wallet into her pocket. Her mug dangled perilously off one crooked finger. Bulma tucked the book between her chin and chest as she shut and locked the door with a hollow thump and then began the trek down the street to Broadway Beans.

The leaves on the trees lining the main street of West City's old downtown area were just turning a dazzling scarlet. The warm rays of the sun, just beginning to set, pierced through the autumn foliage as Bulma walked underneath, playing against her hair as the breeze jostled the leaves.

Hopping over the railroad tracks that lay parallel to the coffee shop and swinging the front door open with a jingle, she surveyed the nearly empty room with relief. She had hoped the college kids would avoid her favorite cafe on a Friday night in favor of getting plastered, and it looked like she was going to get her wish. She set her mug against the counter and nabbed a banana out of the fruit basket.

"How is West City's most beautiful hermit this fine Friday evening?" The barista called out to Bulma as she exited the back room, grabbing a pot of coffee instinctually and pouring the dark roast into Bulma's dinosaur mug.

"I'm alright. Looks like you've got quite the crowd tonight, Charla," Bulma observed dryly. The only other occupants were two elderly, grizzled men wearing matching driving caps with a chess board between them. Their canes rested against the table as they considered their moves with very slow deliberation.

"No one tonight except Earl and Ray, Ms. Briefs. And now my favorite blue haired polymath."

"Oh, hush." Bulma dropped a five dollar bill into the tip jar and scooped up her coffee, heading towards her favorite window seat to lose herself in a book until she was evicted by Charla at closing time. She propped her feet up on an adjacent chair, and peeled and bit into her banana distractedly, flipping the worn spine open to the receipt for a ham sandwich that had been recycled into a bookmark.

When the sun's remaining glow barely lit Bulma's enraptured face through the window, the jingle of the door opening reached her faintly, pulling her out of her story and causing her to lose her place. She glanced up in irritation, and her eyes widened. In the doorway there stood a stupidly dashing man, his thick black mane curled upward like a flame, its deep hue matching his expensive black slacks and trench coat. He shrugged gracefully out of his coat and hung it over his arm, inspecting the inside of the small coffee shop with polite interest. Bulma swiftly closed her mouth and shoved her nose into her book, peering at him out of the corner of her eye. He had beautiful bronze skin, high, sharp cheekbones, and a chiseled jawline. He obviously wasn't from around here. This part of West City was at best a college town and at worst party headquarters for barely legal students. Maybe he was a visiting academic or an alumni? She peered up over her book at him.

He leaned up against the counter and stared right back at her.

She shoved her book in her face, smacking herself with it in the process. She let out a little huff and blushed, resolving to get back to her book.

She read and reread the passage five times while eavesdropping on the exchange between Charla and the stranger at the counter. The man dropped a few bills pinched between his fingers into the jar and turned toward the two men hunched over the chess board.

_“Now there is hardly any space or air between our two faces, and I try and jerk myself free, breathing fast as if I were drowning. But he holds my hands and tightens...” Wait, what? Okay. Do-over. “Now there is hardly any space or air between” what is he talking to them about? It sounds like he's giving Earl chess advice...Ugh! “NOW there is hardly any space or air between our two faces” ohwhyamievenbothering._

Bulma plopped her book down on the small table with frustration and watched as the man, standing at Earl's elbow, gestured at the game board, his deep voice rolling through the room but distant enough to be unclear. Bulma leaned in and raised her mug to her lips, her eyes narrowing as she pretended to sip her coffee.

"I'd sacrifice that pawn and move your bishop two spaces so his rook can't capture your—"

"What? That's just reckless!" Bulma interrupted, her mug knocking against the wood as she sat it down carelessly.

The man turned toward her with a look of wry amusement.

"Then what would you suggest?"

Realizing her error, Bulma's cheeks tinged a pretty pink, and she cleared her throat. "Well," she began, standing up and moving hesitantly toward them. "If he moves his rook, Ray could take it with his bishop two moves from now, and Earl wouldn't have anyone to protect his queen except the king. Once you're relying on your queen to take care of your king, then you're simply playing a game of defense, which is a losing strategy. Earl, I'd suggest moving your farthest right pawn two spaces, luring out his other pawn, and then your pawn could take his bishop in one fell swoop."

Earl and Ray blinked dazedly at the chess board. Slowly, Earl followed Bulma's advice, and when Ray moved his pawn forward, Bulma beamed in self-satisfaction when Earl easily deflected him. She glanced up at the stranger smugly. He looked down on her with an amused smirk. His eyes, a blackened mahogany, glinted with sharp acuity. He cocked an eyebrow at her and gestured at the two men with his ceramic cup.

"I cede the battlefield to you, then."

Bulma smiled up at him bashfully.

"I'm Vegeta." He offered his hand.

"Bulma." She placed her small white hand inside his and shook it firmly.

"Well, that just ain't right."

They turned toward Earl, who had folded his arms in resignation as Ray chuckled gleefully, scooping up all the pieces off the board. Bulma blanched and looked slowly up to Vegeta, who grinned wolfishly down at her.

"I guess you didn't account for every possible move," he suggested smoothly.

Bulma's face flushed scarlet and she buried her face in her hand, peeking out between her fingers to watch Earl fork over a wad of dollar bills to his opponent and rise to leave.  
"No. I guess I did not."

His hand gently removed her own from her face, and his mischievous smile widened. "How about we put your wits to good use." He pulled out a chair at the table. "Two out of three?"

* * *

 

Vegeta and Bulma crashed up against the outside wall of Broadway Beans in a flurry of heated kissing, hands clutched in the other's shirt collar. Vegeta's tongue swept her mouth as his coat slid out of his grasp, his hand moving to cup her face. Bulma tilted her head to deepen the kiss, running her hands along his broad shoulders. His hands trailed down her chest with the backs of his knuckles and settled on her hips. Bulma tossed her book and mug to the ground to free her hand, but not before making sure it landed safely on his coat. His mouth tasted like Italian roast with a dash of vanilla. Under Bulma's hand, his face was smooth, his crisp white button down cool against her fevered touch. As his mouth trailed hot down her slender throat, his hand traveled under the hem of her shirt, grazing the underside of her breasts.

She tugged at his belt loops, her head rolling against the cool brick in the moonlight.

"Mmm, Vegeta?" She moaned against his mouth, her pointer finger hooking delicately into his pants.

She felt a rumble against her chest as his mouth descended on her collar bone and nipped her softly with his teeth, causing her to shiver.

"We don't have to carry on in an alleyway...I live near campus. Would you...like to go home with me?"

Maybe she was biased, but she thought she was doing a pretty good job at not sounding too desperate. She applauded herself. It had been a long time since she had been mouth-to-mouth with a man, and she definitely had little experience with getting hot and heavy with one she had just met hours ago.

His fingers flicked her jacket off her shoulders and tugged at the sleeves, sucking at her exposed flesh. The night air pebbled her skin, and she lost her breath as his fingers brushed the front of her shorts. She looped her arms around his shoulders as he pinned her with a smoldering stare. Holding her chin between his fingers, he leaned in and kissed her deeply as the railroad crossing beside the coffee shop began to flash and clang. She pressed his mouth harder into her own, her hand in his hair as the roar of the train approached. His hand trailed to her hair, tangling his fingers in it before pulling back to give her a sultry, half-lidded once over. Red light strobed and saturated their faces and lit the edges of his hair.

He lowered his head to take her earlobe between her teeth and paused, staring at the mark at her hairline.

Bulma glanced sidelong at him, her mouth wet and plump with kissing. "What's wrong?"

Vegeta straightened and gently touched the inscription, a few lines of tiny kanji trailing behind her ear.

Bulma froze.

She felt his breath tickle her ear as he absorbed the tattoo.

Vegeta promptly reached down to grab his coat and strode briskly out of the alley.

Dumbfounded, Bulma panted against the brick as the train began to rush past her and watched Vegeta's silhouette disappear as he rounded the corner.

Bulma gaped, and then scowled, stooping to pick up her mug and book. She smoothed her shirt down and dusted the cover of her book off.

"What the hell?" She muttered, perplexed, staring down the alley where Vegeta had retreated. "Did I say something wrong?"

* * *

 

Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Bulma took a sip from her water bottle and pedaled through her thirty minute mark. She glanced up at the clock on the wall of the gym and sighed. She had just short of an hour until her next class. She slowed her pace on the stationary bicycle and straightened, smoothing her hair against her head. And froze.

Vegeta glided past her.

She snatched up her water bottle and hopped off the bike to stride after him.

"Vegeta!" She bumped into another gym goer but continued her pursuit. "Vegeta!"

He turned into the men's locker room, but not before shooting her a stony look.

Bulma stopped in her tracks and watched the locker room door creak shut. Her brows furrowed into a deep scowl and she took off toward the women's locker room, yanking the heavy door open in frustration.

What the hell was his problem? What game was he playing? She turned the dial of the lock on her locker and jerked it open, and then cursed as her clothes and shoes toppled out onto the floor. She grabbed her towel and shoved her stuff back in, stomping toward the showers.

Ever since he'd bailed on her outside of Broadway Beans, she was seeing him everywhere. At first, it was kind of embarrassing. She'd tuck her head in and pretend she didn't see him, despite the overpowering desire to pick his brain about why he'd taken off without a word. That night she had walked back to her apartment in dejection and cooked herself some very calorie-laden comfort food. Was she just a bad kisser? Worse, did he think she wasn't worth his time when she invited him to stay the night? He had made her feel so insecure the following day, wondering if she wasn't a desirable woman. He had been a very handsome man who looked like he knew what he wanted from life and took it. He seemed totally in control and confident. She, on the other hand, was a mousy academic. She had very nearly been in her pajamas when she headed out to Broadway. Charla hadn't been lying when she'd called Bulma a hermit. She rarely got out. She had grown accustomed to being alone and focusing her time and energy on her academic field. Which begged the question: why had someone like him been so interested in her? He'd been a smooth talker, but he seemed to know just which of her buttons to push, to tease and bait her, which he had done with unashamed relish. All she knew was that they were playing chess when the competition seemed to heat up...and his casual flirting became more exacting. And caught in the spirit of competition, Bulma had taken the bait. Ugh, so stupid! She shook her head at herself as she stepped into the hot spray of the shower and began lathering the bar of soap in her hands. She wasn't used to romantic attention. But with him, it had all felt so natural. The game of wits had evolved into flirting, and when Charla had called out that she was closing, they were nearly skipping out the door with gleeful naughtiness. It had seemed like such an organic procession of events. Surely he'd felt the same way? So then why did he just bail? And why couldn't he have been at least polite about it? He had made her feel like a loser.

And now—Bulma slammed her hand down on the shower knob and the spray tapered off—he was stalking her. No, the prick couldn't have just abandoned her and gone back to whatever big city he had oozed out of. Instead, she was seeing him everywhere. And at first, she had bowed her head and continued walking as if she hadn't noticed him. But then it became more frequent, running into him often enough that she was growing suspicious. He was loitering at all her hangouts. He was at the gym when she was, he was getting coffee at her usual spots during her usual times, he was just nonchalantly smoking those weird cigarettes outside of the science building when it was time for class, leaning against the brick, watching her. Bulma was now a tangle of emotions. At first she had been hurt and embarrassed, but now she was becoming downright indignant. Bulma Briefs would be threatened by no one. Especially handsome creeps.

She toweled off and tugged on her clothes, a loose green sweater and slacks. Grabbing her soft leather briefcase from the locker and snapping the lock back in place, she let out a tense breath through pursed lips. She needed to relax and pull it together before class. She fluffed her hair with her free hand and made her way out of the gym, her loafers hitting the pavement with a dull smack. The air was crisp today, and kids with backpacks milled around the park benches smoking and shuffling to class. She glanced at her watch. She still had a little bit of time before class started. She took another calming breath. The breeze shook the trees she passed under, causing a raucous of dry leaves and a few to cascade down to the ground around her. One landed delicately in her hair, and she plucked it out, spinning it between her fingers thoughtlessly before flicking it in the bushes.

She pushed the door open to the Science Building and descended down the stairs toward her office. The other offices were dark and silent, her colleagues busy teaching class. She pulled out her keys and inserted the small bronze key into the door handle, propping the door open with her hip as she bent over into her briefcase, searching for a few papers. She softly kicked the door shut behind her with her heel and pulled out a stack of papers, glancing at her cluttered desk for a space to toss them. And gasped.  
Vegeta slouched with his back to her in her visitor's office chair, arms crossed behind his head, tapping his foot to some unheard tune. Bulma grit her teeth and threw her briefcase onto her desk with a thud. She clenched her fists and stared at the back of his head.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in here?"

He craned his neck, shooting her a saucy smirk. "When you said you lived near campus, I assumed you were a student. Not a professor."

Bulma burned holes into the back of his head and then rigidly made her way to the front of her desk, leaning her hip against it and folding her arms against her chest.  
"That doesn't answer my question. Why have you been following me?"

One moment, Vegeta was smiling at her sharply. The next moment, he was getting to his feet as he pulled a gun out of the silver interior of his suit jacket.

Bulma saw all of it as in slow motion. Without preamble, she leaned over her desk, her hands closing around two doubled edged daggers that lay hidden beside her computer. She flung them expertly, one aimed at his wrist, the other aimed at his thick thigh. He bent unnaturally to the left, avoiding the knife to the thigh and barely avoiding the other, which succeeded in knocking the gun out of his hand. She twisted off the desk and kicked outward, her legs sweeping like a coffee grinder right at his face, a move he expertly dodged. Vegeta somersaulted once he hit the floor and reached for the leg of the chair, picking it up from his position on the floor with an unnatural strength and hurling it at her. Bulma ducked—barely—and dove for his gun right as he rolled himself upright, leg extending to sweep her own out from under her. She hopped over them, and with preternatural grace and speed, she scooped up the gun and ripped the knife from the wall where it had been buried after missing Vegeta's thigh. As she turned, she watched Vegeta's fist sail through the air right towards her face. Without a second to lose, Bulma bent his arm backwards, fighting his sheer strength, as she rammed her knee into his side. Although he sucked in his breath, he continued to grapple with her. Bulma hadn't expected him to sail through that kind of pain. Seeing an opening as she bemoaned her miscalculation, Vegeta braced his shoulders and charged into her belly, sending them sprawling on the floor to hit the wall with the dry crack of plaster. He pinned her legs down heavily with his own and held her wrists captive above her head, flashing her a triumphant smirk. Bulma glowered at him, and he grinned wider at her sulking.

"I thought you were supposed to be the best," he purred. He wasn't prepared when Bulma overpowered him, feinting a knee to the balls and, taking advantage of his surprise, twisted them around so that she straddled him with a knife to the throat and a gun to his head before he could buck her off.

"Not just anyone can outmaneuver me," she replied huskily. "Why are you in my office testing me?"

He now looked a little peeved that she had turned the tables on him. Bulma's lips twitched. Did he really think he could outsmart her?

"Be so kind as to get your ass off of me and I would be happy to explain it to you," he crooned, though he sounded anything but obliging.

"Yeah, right, playboy." She cocked the gun. "You can tell me from there. Now get to it."

"I really didn't think I'd be having this conversation with you between your thighs."

Bulma blushed a furious red and pressed the knife into his powerful throat before he could take advantage of her surprise.

"Are you always this jumpy around men?"

"Most men who come charging at me with a gun don't live long enough to get to this position, no."

"So then it's just me? Aw, and I thought I might get a fight out of the Blue Menace."

"I see my reputation precedes me."

"Does it bother you that I know?"

She scooted up in one fluid motion so that her thighs framed his head and her hands pressed against his temples, indicating that, in one quick motion, his neck could be broken, dead meat.

"Does it bother you that you won't live long enough to know?"

He chuckled, and even disabled embarrassingly as he was, cast her a smoky look. "It troubles me I won't get to find out what it's like between your thighs with your pants off before you dispatch me."

Again, she blushed crimson. "Will you quit doing that?" She shrieked.

He broke out into hacking laughter. "Get off me, and we'll talk. You have nothing to fear from me. You've made that apparent." He glanced at her thighs around his head distastefully.

"Hmph," she smirked down at him. "Just keep your hands where I can see them. And if you try anything else," she warned him silkily, "I will kill you."

"Can't wait." He bared his teeth at her in a feral smirk.

She sprang off him easily, tossing their weapons onto the desk between them and settling into her office chair, folding her hands in her lap and fixing him with a glower. "Start talking."

He sat up gracefully—damn the man—and uprighted the chair that he had sent to decapitate her.

"Let me explain first why I left you that Friday night," he began casually, smoothing his shirt and trousers and sitting back in the chair imperiously. He cocked an elbow on the arm of the chair and placed his chin on his fist, affecting boredom. "I didn't know who you were, then. I was sent to your little college town as a transfer. I work at a law firm and they set up a small location here on the south side near your coffee shop. That Friday marked my first week here. I've lived in the city all my life and was simply curious what kind of amusements a small town might offer on a Friday night. And then I ran into you." He said it with an equal helping of irritation and mirth. "And I found out the more I spoke with you, the more I genuinely liked you. Your idiosyncrasies are charming."

Her eyes widened. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or insulted.

"And it's rare that a woman is a match for me." He gestured around the room, which was looking a little bit like a tornado had passed through.

She narrowed her eyes. "Keep talking."

He leaned forward, losing the easygoing bit and suddenly exuding menace. "If you're wondering if I made out with you with some ulterior motive, I did not, rest assured. It wasn't until I saw God's marking behind your ear that I realized who—and what—you are."

"There aren't many people who'd know that symbol if they saw it. I could count them on one hand, in fact."

He leaned back again, suddenly smug. "Ah, well. I'm Black Vengeance." He scrutinized her. "I, too, do what you do."

Shocked to the core, she stared. "Black...Vengeance? You're joking."

"Did you not think I was real? That someone conjured me up, that I was a figment of the media or Red Ribbon's imagination? Well, I'm not. I, like you, have my own reasons for seeing Red Ribbon fall. And imagine my surprise when the cute little woman I was kissing outside some blasted small town coffee shop is the Chosen One. What did you expect me to do? Shake your hand and say, 'Oh, we're super hero pals now, let's be best friends?' Let's establish some preliminaries: I do not get buddy buddy," he sneered.

"Well," she wheedled. "That's not what I was expecting."

He glanced sidelong at her with agitation. "If you think I am going to be your superhero side kick, think again. That's not why I'm here. Yes, I've been shadowing you. You're masquerading as some podunk college professor. Why is that?"

Bulma's face darkened. "West Falls University is not some podunk college, Mr. Vengeance." He rolled his eyes at her nickname, but she continued. "And I am not masquerading as anything. I'm an academic who just happens to have a secret identity." As he rolled his eyes, her voice became thick, bitter. "What do you THINK happened? You've done your research on me, have you? Well, then you should know that my parent's were killed in a car accident the same week the Red Ribbon Enterprises absorbed my father's company in an illegal merger. All of my father's work, my future, the people who cared for me, were ripped from me. With the small chunk of change dictated in my father's will—after all, he thought I would grow up to personally receive the presidency from his hands—I was shuffled around in foster care until I dropped out of school. I enrolled in the University of West City and earned my Ph.D in molecular physics before I was 18. I used the rest of my funds to get two more degrees, one in nanotechnology, the other in quantum gravity. I was offered a few positions to teach by the time I was 22. I accepted the position here. Why, you may ask? Well, I could only stand to see the Capsule Corp building from my apartment window for so damned long. I couldn't stand to be in the same city that bastard is running any longer. Secondly, it was much easier to keep my identity secret from afar. Obviously, no one here suspects me of being a corporate terrorist. I live here alone in relative peace, teaching astrophysics and advancing my agenda quietly. I'm sure you could have guessed that, though, Mr. Vengeance? Since you're awfully sure of yourself."

He cast her a quick smirk. "Does it bother you to see a man so self-assured, Ms. Briefs? Not all of us are your enemy. And not all of us can be outwitted."

They sat inside a thick tension, until Vegeta leaned forward again. "Well, then. Do you have any questions for me?" He asked, his tone amused but not cruel.

"Why do you do it?"

His eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Why dress up and try to take down a corporate giant? What's it to you?"

Vegeta rose, ran his fingers through his hair, and popped his collar. "You're not the only one whose innocence or legacy was stolen from them by Red Ribbon. I was the heir to Ouji Corp." He loomed over her, his tone turning dark. "And now I'm just a lawyer in a small town which just happens to host the Blue Menace." He smirked and leaned over the desk, and her eyes widened with his proximity. "Except Kami didn't give me a license to do it. I work alone, Ms. Briefs. But I'll see you around. And I'll quit tailing you and making you squirm, as fun as it was."

Before she could retort, he leaned over and softly took her lower lip between his teeth. She blinked as his lips pressed against hers and his finger reached out to trail through a lock of her curls, plucking a leaf from her hair. "You're going to be late to class."

Bulma's eyes locked on to her watch and she burst out of her seat. "Oh, shit!"

Vegeta held the door open for her. She gathered up the papers and scurried out into the hall, and as she turned around to make a biting remark about keeping her eye on him, he was gone.

 

III. "Reluctant Allies"

  
_"We interrupt your evening programming with breaking news brought to you exclusively by the Channel 5 News Team. A floor of the Red Ribbon owned 'Gero Company,' which produces weapons for our military in downtown West City, is in flames tonight, as fire fighters and other emergency personnel work to fight the already extensive damage. The West City fire chief has declared this a three alarm fire and has little hope that anything of Gero Company will be left to salvage by the morning. One of the city's resident masked crime fighters is suspected of starting the blaze, right after a fire fight outside the building that has left at least three Gero Company employees dead. Outside the building was a message written in fire which reads, 'Justice doesn't compromise with criminals.' Gero Company and Red Ribbon Enterprises have long fought rumors of connections to organized crime and political extortion. Whether or not it was the work of Blue Menace or Black Vengeance remains to be seen. We'll keep you updated as this story unfolds. And now back to your regular programming."_

Bulma streaked down the gritty alleyway and rounded the corner as footsteps pounded the pavement behind her. She ran fast, but evidently the Red Ribbon thug behind her could run fast, too. She pulled her throwing knives from their home at her thighs and used her momentum to leap onto the brick wall and flip backwards, sinking the knives into the goons chest just as he rounded the corner. Bulma yanked them from his chest just as a roughened voice spilled from the shadows.

"Fancy meeting you here. Don't you have papers to grade?"

Bulma stiffened and, with some hesitation, sheathed her knives. "What, don't like competition?"

Black Vengeance pulled off the wall, separating himself from the shadows. Black vinyl sheathed him from head to toe, like latex poured over a Grecian statue. His black boots flared around his shins, his black mask obscuring his features from the nose up. He folded his arms across his chest and stepped further from the wall, gazing down at her from the eyeholes of his mask, his hair sweeping upwards from it in an aggressive crescendo.

"What are you doing here, Blue? These goons are  _my_ dinner."

She scoffed. "Must have forgotten to check my schedule. Puh-lease. I was here first." She walked back into the ally, her hips swaying unconsciously. Her sapphire suit hugged her frame in a flirtatious cut, her blue mask framing rich blue eyes. Her teal curls spilled out from her head chaotically. He followed after her casually, contentedly watching her curls and ass bounce with each step.

"I told you not to step on my toes, Blue."

"Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?"

He was suddenly right in front of her, leaning his arm against the wall and smirking devilishly down at her. "I don't like your attitude."

She sneered. "Then it looks like you're going have to change yours."

Gunfire suddenly rained down on them from above. Vegeta grabbed Bulma's wrist and yanked her forward, and they sprinted down the alley. As they rounded the corner, a group of thugs emerged from the shadows, chuckling as they twirled their bats with disregard for the two masked opponents they faced in the dark alley. Bulma instinctively pulled her katana from the sheath that lay at her back. Vegeta's back pressed up against hers, and he pulled his own weapon out from a holster at his back: a stocky, beautifully engraved antique gun.

"I didn't know Black Vengeance had a thing for 19th century firearms," she remarked behind him as the goons slowly advanced on them.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said gruffly. He lit the fuse with a snap of his fingers and took aim at the biggest goon. "I have Fatty and Blondie."

"Fine," she snapped. "I'll take Shorty and Skinny."

As the gun fired in a burst of powder, Bulma rushed the tagalong crowd, sprinting up the wall and arcing her sword sideways. Sweeping it through the group, she lunged off the wall and descended into the middle of the ruffians with a twirl that any gymnast would envy before settling into a crouch. There was another single burst of gunfire, and as though they were all attached to strings, the goons dropped simultaneously: two with bullets between their eyes and two without heads.

Bulma stood and flipped her hair back from her face, surveying the mess impartially.

"Why can't you play nice?" Vegeta quickly cleaned the barrel of his gun, his gravelly voice like a fine grained sandpaper drug over her body. She repressed a shiver, and her lips tugged downward.

"You dropped me like I was hot when I invited you back to my place, and then stalked me, and then attacked me in my office and exposed my identity. And I'm not playing nice?"

The pair sheathed their weapons and walked in tandem down the alley.

Vegeta snorted. "How else was I going to know if you're the real thing? I had to test you. It's not like you were just going to offer up that information."

She cut him a look of disapproval, her head just topping and bobbing at his shoulder as they scanned the next ally for goons.

"I'm your ally. You shouldn't give me the cold shoulder," he discouraged her with dark mirth.

"I thought you said we weren't allies, and that you worked alone," Bulma countered sarcastically.

"Legally, we can't be allies. Duck!" Vegeta barked, already pulling his pistol from its carrier and lighting it as Bulma kicked her legs out in front of her and bent backwards with shocking agility as a bullet whizzed inches above her. The bellow of Vegeta's gun firing and the subsequent groan of a goon alerted her she could safely rise from her crouch, and she glanced up the alley at the slain goon, his hat still smoking a few feet from him.

They stared at each other's masked faces in the shadows of the alley for a long moment, an overture of a truce forming tentatively between them, when Bulma saw metal glint from the corner of her vision. With inhuman speed, she pulled a knife from its sheath and it plunged into the chest of Vegeta's attacker with ridiculous force, knocking the goon off his feet. Another knife sped in the other direction, pinning another goon against the brick by his wrist.

She trotted over to the goon on the ground to collect her knife, and then pivoted, slinking toward the goon writhing against the wall. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and his eyes bulged in fear as he watched the Blue Menace approach him, Black Vengeance looming behind her with his bulging arms crossed, like a gargoyle hovering protectively over his domain.

"You're going to tell me," she crooned, "what I want to know."

The man whimpered.

"Do the 88's work for Red Ribbon?"

The man's lips trembled but he said nothing. The Blue Menace plunged her knife into the man's other hand, which sunk like butter into the brick behind him as he let out an anguished moan. All the while, Black Vengeance leaned against the wall indifferently, his head hanging back on his linebacker's shoulders, his hair issuing a threat to the sky.  
"You working together now?" He wheezed.

Bulma glanced back at her reluctant companion and turned back to the goon with menace. "Would our partnership strike fear into the hearts and minds of Red Ribbon?" She cooed.

The man nodded and clenched his eyes shut. Those mad, maelstrom blue eyes set in that pretty pale face were too much for him. The guys liked to joke around about what they'd do to the Blue Menace if they got a hold of her. He tried to stifle a hard on and failed.

"Then maybe we should."

Vegeta glanced up in surprise, but as he did, he noticed the tent in the man's trousers. Vegeta strode over, corded arms crossed domineeringly.

"Does pain get you off?" He whispered in the man's ear. The man flinched, but the movement tugged at the knives embedded in his wrists, and he nearly passed out from the pain.

"The woman asked you a question," he growled. "Do the 88's work for Red Ribbon?"

The man swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Yes, they do."

"And is it true what they say, that a 'Seventeen' and 'Eighteen' command them?"

The man nodded frantically. "Yes."

Vegeta and Bulma shared dour looks.

"They're the...best. Elite fighters. They guard the Boss."

Bulma collected her knives from his wrists and the slime ball sunk to his knees, crying.

Vegeta pointed to the holes left in the wall without uncrossing his arms. "That's why we can't work together."

Bulma glanced at the holes and frowned delicately, not catching on.

"You're Kami's Chosen," Vegeta explained roughly. "God singled you out, gave you sacred weapons, gave you a sacred mission: to purge this planet of Red Ribbon."

She watched him in wonder as he recited her history.

"Me, on the other hand," he smirked with self-loathing, "I am not destined for Heaven with a mission from God." He looked at her under his eyebrows with dark conviction. "I get my orders from the Demon King."

Bulma's mouth gaped into what Vegeta thought of as a beautiful little pout. "The Demon King? Piccolo Daimao himself?"

Vegeta nodded, pulling a thin black cigarette from a beautifully engraved case attached to his belt, letting it droop between his lips as he snapped his fingers under the tip, creating a small blue flame visible only for a second. His inky black eyes showed no emotion, focusing on the far wall. "The CEO of Red Ribbon has taken something very special from Piccolo Junior. I'm to take it back. Your violence is sanctified from above. Mine is affirmed from below."

Bulma moved closer to Vegeta, resting her hands on her hips and chewing her lip in thought.

"We'll have a better chance of succeeding if we partner up," she at last ceded. "Maybe we should show Heaven and Hell what they could accomplish if they worked together."  
Vegeta's eyes flicked over her with amusement. "You would say that. You champion the benevolence of Heaven." He snorted, red smoke curling languidly from his cigarette. "Don't get your hopes up. I don't need help from anyone," he warned her.

"Of course not. Neither do I," Bulma muttered crossly.

The pair looked sheepishly at opposite ends of the alleyway.

"Well," Vegeta interrupted, breaking the mood with a sly smirk. "Then will you go out to lunch with me?"

"What?!" She squawked.

He really just couldn't get enough of that.

"I owe you lunch for saving my life," he nodded at the slain goon, and his body closed the already small space between them, which caused a faint blush to creep up her cheeks. "Can I pick you up at your place Monday afternoon? I know you only have morning classes on Mondays, and it's not like you own a car," he finished with distaste.  
Bulma's shyness swiftly became agitation.

"I can get around if I wanted to."

"Well, Princess," he remarked dryly, and his smirk broadened when her features waffled between anger and embarrassment at his endearment, "I'll pick you up in my car at one, and we can discuss this partnership at length at the place of your choosing." He held out his hand for the second time, only this time, when she reached out to shake it, ebony glove met sapphire.

"It's a date," Bulma admitted reluctantly, eyeing the too handsome man from the corner of her eyes as she turned to leave with a stupid tug of giddy excitement.

Just as she turned away, she ripped the katana from its home between her shoulders and it sung down a sound of death as it swept through the muscle of a goon who was creeping up on her with a knife. She moved to stoop over the first goon, who, despite his limp, flayed wrists, was attempting to pull out a revolver as he used his feet to scoot away. The second goon's head rolled over to his own and knocked lightly into his as the Blue Menace kneeled over him, grinning.

"Going somewhere?" She asked, knowing just where he was going, before she slit his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Pt. II

  
"Fallen"

The bomb ticked a malevolent rhythm as Bulma recrossed her long legs and propped her chin on her fist.

"I wish you would just tell me what I want to know, Mr. Vanderbilt."

The gangster broke out into a cold sweat and struggled against the ropes that bound him to his chair.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"I told you everything I know, Ms. Blue Menace! Gero made the guns. Red Ribbon stocks 'em. That's all I know."

A hulking figure emerged from behind her, an engraving against the inky darkness, striking a chord of terror through the goon.

"Strike two," it said in a grating baritone.

"We really are being generous here, Mr. Vanderbilt," Blue Menace commented dryly, her soft voice chiming through the industrial storage room. "We know you have ties to both the Red Ribbon and the Osaku mob. We know you have made a name for yourself and climbed the ranks by killing your comrades and kidnapping and trafficking young girls. We also know that you're the partner to a weapons specialist who is very close to Red Ribbon's heart—Dr. Cell. What I want you to tell me is whether or not Gero's most prized weapons are going to the 88's, and where we may find Cell to have a word with him. Is that too much to ask for sparing your life?"

"Are you crazy?" The thug's voice trembled, but he shook his head stubbornly. "I know how this works. I tell you, you kill me anyway. Oldest trick in the book." He rolled his eyes. "I watch movies, too, ya know."

The Blue Menace unfolded herself from the chair and stood lithely, taking slow steps toward the bound man as she stretched her arms lazily above her head. "Do you know who I am, Mr. Vanderbilt?"

His eyes widened, but he still managed a snort. "Yeah, I know who you are. A pest. An annoyance to us guys who just work for a pretty penny off the records. You can kill a few of us at a time, but you can't touch Red Ribbon. You can't touch the Boss. He's got eighty eight crazy motherfuckers guarding him at every second of the day, and the two leaders are beyond badass. You don't stand a chance. Blow up our munitions plant, set fire to our weapons reserve. You still ain't getting anywhere, cuz you ain't reaching the Boss. He runs this city."

The Blue Menace bent forward at the hips to gaze coolly at the gangster, giving Vegeta a full view of her derriere and curving, spread legs. He smirked, knowing the woman was just trying to goad him. She was giving him blue balls and she knew it, taking her time to get to know him while teasing and testing him. That was one thing he noticed right off the bat since they'd started dating—she was a walking contradiction. Day to day, whether teaching class or cooking dinner, she had no idea how beautiful she was. By night, at least on nights like these, she morphed into a saintly little vixen, strutting around in that too-tight spandex and quite literally cutting men looks that could kill.

And it was all totally unintentional. Most of the women he had dated or slept with made a show of their beauty. Attractiveness was an operation fastidiously executed. Bulma's beauty was an organic performance, a syncopated orchestra of giggles, spilled coffee, and tart shrewdness. When she was irritated with him, he wanted nothing more than to kiss the petulance right off her face. Other women were trite, their beauty cookie-cutter and uninspired, their personalities dull, their conversation mind-numbing, their upkeep tedious. He could bank on being quite bored with the woman before the date even began. His buddies ran a gamut of jokes about Vegeta's sexual preferences. They were in their 30's, and Vegeta made no indication of settling down. He was a top-tier lawyer in a slick suit ordering high priced scotch with only limited interest in women, while women were falling all over themselves to have at him. But Bulma inspired a totally different shade of feelings from him. Frankly, he was a little intimidated by them, but his impulsive desire for her overrode it.

Bulma was an adventure; he never knew what would happen when they were together. Would she snort milk out her nose when they were having dinner and then laugh at his expense? Accidentally mistake his law documents for spare paper and cover them in lines and lines of chicken scratch algorithms? Do the funky chicken in line for the bathroom at the bar, catching his eye and blushing scarlet until he swept over and pressed her up against the wall, tasting her sweet mouth as she tried to explain herself and before he stopped her with a chuckle and waved the line on? Bulma was genuine, and he had never met another woman like her. And as she bent over the sweating thug, his pride swelled. When she suited up, she was terrifying and peerless. Kami's enigmatic magic was really something to behold. Sure, he had Piccolo Daimao's own magic juju on his side, but, in the way that Hell would always be undercut by Heaven, he had nothing on this Angel of Justice, wagging her ass at him.

She was getting ballsy, this one. She always knew how to push his buttons in their everyday life and then push him to the limit while they prowled the city. He'd been driving his sports car recklessly during wild nights in the city, hang gliding and mountain climbing on weekend getaways, arguing and remaining impervious to coercion by day. All while inching closer to the end of his contract with Piccolo Daimao. They were all ways to test himself. And, yet, he was at a stalemate with her. Kami's prodigy was like the final piece to the puzzle.

"Let me tell you," he overhead her murmur in the goon's ear, "exactly who I am, Mr. Vanderbilt. I am an Angel of Death sent to rid the world of the blight Red Ribbon has caused on peaceable folk and the scourge that they've funded. And when I say angel, I mean"—she enunciated softly—"sent by God himself."

She picked up the thick cross and chain off his chest to observe it. "You are a Pharisaic, Mr Vanderbilt. You wear your cross by day and send mothers and daughters into prostitution, addiction, assault and death by night. Your mistress buys fur coats with the money gleaned from violently slain business owners. You have no concept of the sanctity of the spirit, Mr. Vanderbilt, and I was sent here to remind you and every agent of Red Ribbon that you are not the highest power. And unlike you, Dr. Cell, the 88's, or your boss...you were not endowed with the powers of God. And unlike my pal Black Vengeance here"—Vegeta snorted at the pet name and promised her a spanking later—"you weren't advocated by Hell, either. You are posers, Mr. Vanderbilt. And like God, the Devil doesn't trifle with amateurs. We are Justice and Vengeance, and you are a message. You have sixty seconds to escape the bombs we've strapped to the frame of this building. Tell Dr. Cell that we're truly unaggrieved over the loss of his weapons tonight, and we will speak about restitution later."

Bulma's katana cut through his ropes with a clear note, and before the thug could blink, the two avengers were sprinting away.

A dim red light drew him from his reverie and he focused in on it. "I need my fucking glasses, man."

_00:48_

"Oh, shit!" He bolted upwards, ropes falling around his feet as he stumbled away, thanking God for his life.

* * *

 

Vegeta and Bulma sprinted at a dead run towards the far wall, flinging the heavy door open upon reaching it and dashing down the fluorescent lit, concrete hall. Grinning goofily, Bulma cut in front of him, sending him a flirty wink.

"Oh no you don't." He grabbed her at the waist and threw her over his shoulders, slapping the ass that struggled next to his head playfully as he continued to shoot down the hall.

He pushed the last door open with hinge-ripping force and sat her down on the metal balcony. She didn't struggle as he pinned her up against the wall, gripping her wrists behind her back with one hand and tilting her head up towards his lips with his fingers. Her mouth parted and her eyelids became heavy.

"I won," he purred.

"Hardly!" She wiggled out from his grip and pulled two palm-sized capsules from her belt. "It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings." Tossing them over the rail, they watched as the pills sailed down and then exploded upon impact. Through a cloud of dissipating smoke, two motorcycles appeared—one wide, black and chrome, the other sleek and blue.  
Vegeta glared at her in alarm, a vein beginning to pulse on his forehead. "Is this what you've been working on? What is this voodoo?"

She laughed and tugged his hair teasingly, earning a silent glower. "Ouji Company made top of the line automobiles, but Capsule Corp. advanced the science of technology. What, you think just because I can't make coffee in the morning without spilling it on myself that I can't invent previously inconceivable technologies?" She gave him a cheeky grin. "And, yes, I wasn't lying when I said I couldn't go out to dinner with you last week. Those," she waved towards the bikes loosely, the capsules blasted into shrapnel, "were hard work. Also highly secret. Now come on!" She sailed over the railing gracefully and landed the 40-feet lightly on her feet.

As she seated herself on her motorcycle, she heard Vegeta's boots hit the the ground with the dry cackle of gravel and the zing of his withdrawing grappling hook.  
"You know how I detest long falls," he groused.

"What a poor sport. Get going, old man!" She revved her engine, leaving him with a smile and a cloud of dust.

"Hmph." He watched her zigzag out of sight before kicking the bike to life and peeling out, just as the building behind him exploded in to a wall of flames.

* * *

 

Bulma was shaking her hair out, helmet gripped between two pale hands, when Vegeta idled into the parking lot of her apartment complex. He quickly shut off the bike, pulling the helmet off his head as he slid off the bike, his hair springing upwards in its defiance of gravity. Bulma hid a smile as he glared at her. She loved his one of a kind, grumpy brand of affection. Sure, he was charming, and smart, and sexy as hell...but she got the idea he had no tolerance for things that couldn't personally advance him. From what information she could work out of him, girlfriends included.

And yet, since their first date, they had just seemed to naturally intrude into the other's life. Although Vegeta had his own place in a ritzier neighborhood a few blocks from his law firm, he ended up dropping by her place more often than not. She didn't mind, which surprised her as she thought on it, considering she had settled a little bit into the role of a foul bachelorette the past few years. She had been to his place once or twice anyway, and it sat, big and empty, like no one lived there.

Which confused her. The guy was a lawyer, had a sports car, would regularly pick up an expensive brand of wine or scotch before coming over for dinner. Just what did the guy value? Why would he value her? She couldn't figure him out. Why was someone so successful, and so delectable, interested in someone as frumpy as her? She was a common sense-challenged introvert. And that's where her suspicions snaked in. She hadn't forgotten who he worked for. To suspect an employee of Hell didn't have ulterior motives would be naive. Wanting to jump his bones didn't make her stupid.

She was not only stupidly attracted to him—the evening she opened the door to find him soaked to the bone by the pouring rain, his hair flattened around his head, pressed against her doorway looking harried and adorably grumpy...she had just wanted to peel that white button up off his thick, bronze shoulders and pull him to her couch to fall on top of her. Or the weekend they were staking out the west side of the city for Red Ribbon activity, and he, pressed up against the brick, poured in black latex with a slender black cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyebrow cocked in thought.... She was finding it hard not to fall for him more each day. She felt comfortable around him, but what's more, she felt like he truly enjoyed the quirks of hers that always intimidated others. Their work loads were equivalent, and so there was no pressure to be filling up each others lives; and yet, they were. Like any girl, she was a sucker for dark, sexy men, except this one was a reality and not a fantasy. This one was one out of millions of single men that could empathize with both her work life and her secret life. Who understood what it was like to lose family and future and to harbor sickening, writhing resentment for the underworld that made it so. They were both ensnared in divine contracts that profited from their consuming hatred for Red Ribbon. And somehow, by seemingly utter coincidence, they had spilled into each others laps, and then not only pooled resources, but found comfort from everyday life with each other. They, finally, had met their matches.

And although she should be wary of anyone who was aware of her half-life, she felt nothing but safe with him. She didn't know that that was a legitimate excuse for fooling around with the Devil's mercenary, or that Kami would approve. She came with baggage and a huge burden—a request from God to take down a titan who had his hands in so many twisted and shady schemes that God had noticed its toll. God had demanded retribution with a purge—and what better help than Hell's right hand? It seemed that, this time, Hell and Heaven were in agreement...even if they didn't know it. Who was she to try and stop Vegeta, or reject the one person in this Kami-forsaken world who could help her? They worked so well together it hurt.

She only wished she had knew him sooner. After Red Ribbon murdered her parents, she had languished alone in the clutches of a slew of negligent foster parents and hardened educators. One afternoon, as she threw her bookbag on the threadbare carpet of her small bedroom, the thump barely distinguishable over her foster parent's shrill argument over his gambling and her drinking, she had gravitated toward the window, peering through the cold, clouded glass at the gray sky, spitting flurries at the tops of other apartment buildings. Standing out against the dull cityscape was the Red Ribbon logo atop one of the tallest skyscrapers in the metro...and under it, her father's Capsule Corp. design and the Ouji Co. sickle insignia. And, like that, her simmering hatred had just...ignited.

The next day she hopped off the metro bus to march up the steps of the University. She had met with an advisor and insisted on an application, and to his increasing shock—and ignoring his insistence that she get back to high school before they declared her truant—easily aced the entrance exams. As the Chair of the Physics department shook her hand reverentially and they gossiped about the newest discoveries in particle science, she had felt something creep over her. Kami had turned his sleepy eye toward her.  
Later that night, as she leaned over in bed to switch her lamp off, a wide, blank gaze shining from a dark face met hers from behind her window. Shrieking, Bulma grasped at her lamp, yanking it from the wall and heaving it at him just as a voice chimed through her skull, stilling her fear.

"Don't be afraid, child. Go with Mr. Popo and I will explain everything."

The lamp shattered against the wall.

"Wh-what?" She stammered. 

Her window opened on its own with a dry hiss. "Go with Mr. Popo, child. This is God, and I need to speak with you."

And despite the violent pounding of her heart, the sheets slid to the floor around her feet, and she was moving toward the window, and looking out. The stout black creature moved closer toward her, hand out, the carpet he stood on fluttering beneath him. There was a good sixteen stories below to plummet to her death. Bulma grit her teeth and moved forward slowly, feeling it out. The carpet wiggled beneath her fingers. Gasping in surprise, her hold on the window ledge slipped. Her body wobbled precariously as she gripped the fringe on the carpet, her feet hooked on the window sill as her body slid forward with nothing but air to support the rest of her. The wind tore at her shirt and numbed her belly. Her shins throbbed, scraped raw by the window sill. She craned her neck and looked at Mr. Popo in panic. His blank expression was unwavering. Slowly, he lowered his hand out to her.

"No! I'll fall!" She tried screaming at him.

Silently, unmoved, he offered his hand.

That was the second time her life changed.

She let go of the fringe and flung her arm out towards his, grasping it on the first try, the frigid wind drying her hands of their panicked clamminess. The force of her frantic horror propelled her onto the carpet to kneel, sucking in burning wintry air at Mr. Popo's sandaled feet.

It seemed like just days ago that they had soared above the clouds to Kami's Lookout, that she had drank the Sacred Water at Korin's Tower and laid on her back in the grass as Popo murmured to the flowers while watering them, and Kami explained divine justice and the Heavenly Rule Book, preparing her for a carefully mapped, divinely legal justice. Kami had never mentioned that Hell was on the same path. Did he even know? She loved and trusted Kami dearly, but God's distraction was partly the reason Red Ribbon had surged out of control. The slow and infinite passing of time isolated him and dulled his senses. He would have to pass his title off on somebody, soon.

Was there more to Vegeta's mission than a job for Piccolo Daimao? Was there some sort of sick scheme he was tricking her into to score another point for Hell in the endless competition between Below and Above? Vegeta certainly had a way with her. What if he was sinisterly faking his attraction; what if his allure was part of his hellish magic? What if he was here to take her and Heaven down?

Vegeta's hair promptly resettled and he strode towards her. Her smirk at his expense faded. She hadn't ever really even had a serious relationship. She had never found anyone she could relate to, and after her hard adolescence and her fostering with Kami, she was chock full of too much hard-won self-esteem to just settle on anyone. And here came Vegeta, this dark and sultry man with a mission from the divine and a family ripped away, just like her. It was too good to be true. He'd been pursuing her for a few months now, and she couldn't think of a time when she had felt uncertain about his intentions toward her. He was enticingly frank, intolerant of bullshit, while still being gracious towards others. He certainly didn't act like a minion.

As the man in question stopped in front of her and growled lightly, she found herself searching his face for answers.

Noticing the thoughtful change in her expression, Vegeta resisted grumbling and stood still under her gaze.

"What are your intentions?" She blurted.

His eyes bulged. "What?"

"Why do you like me?" She reprised.

He scowled. "What's not to like about you?"

"Well," she contested, placing one hand on her hip, "how do I know your motives are your own?"

Vegeta snorted and folded his arms across his chest, a mannerism of his when he had to endure something unpleasant. "I've told you before, I have a score to settle, and that's between the Demon King and Red Ribbon. The rest of my life is my own to control. There's never been any mention of you between Hell and I. I'm beginning to think you're searching for any excuse to get rid of me. Just tell me if you want to part ways and we'll be done!" He barked defensively.

Bulma's brows dipped delicately into a frown. "Vegeta, this mission is very important to both Kami and I. My continued survival is key. Can you really fault me for being cautious?"

Vegeta let out a forceful huff of air and his gaze slid sideways. Bulma's heart jumped in her throat as she sensed him retreating.

He had never felt so conflicted by a woman before. Here he was, the Vegeta Ouji, chasing after a girl that was so on-again off-again that he was beginning to doubt his sanity. "Just spit it out. Do you want this to just be business or will you relax so we can just enjoy life together?"

Bulma blinked. The night had settled into a contained hush. Only the distant sounds of traffic filled the silence between them, in the cradle of the trees lining her parking lot.  
"Do you mean, you want this to be something serious?" She asked softly.

To her total bewilderment, Vegeta blushed pink against the dark. His feet shifted on the pavement and he peered down at the darkness between them stiffly.

"For Kami's sake, woman," he snapped, "how much clearer can I make it?"

Something warm blossomed inside Bulma as his statement reverberated inside her. An unfamiliar joy wrapped around her belly and she couldn't help but smile goofily in response. Vegeta just looked on uneasily.

"Vegeta Ouji," Bulma announced as she stepped against him and pressed her lips lightly against his own. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

His eyes flicked over her face and quickly relaxed, leveling a smirk at her that heated her through. Loosely gripping her chin between his finger and thumb, he leaned down and parted her lips with his tongue, generously and languorously exploring her mouth until Bulma's knees went weak. He felt her hands grip his shoulders, and he rested his own on her waist, settling his forehead on her own. Scrutinizing ebony met ocean blue.

"Bulma Briefs," he murmured, "I'd be beyond fucking delighted."

* * *

 

Bulma's back slammed up against brick as Vegeta pressed her against the outside wall of her apartment, their hands frantically exploring the other's body. His mouth was feverish and silky against hers as he worked her suit zipper down. His rough hands met soft skin and he grunted happily into her mouth.

Bulma couldn't stop touching him. She raked her fingers through his thick hair, lashing her tongue against his as her palms rounded his shoulders and skimmed the ridges of his abs.

His hands brushed her chest and she shivered, her nipples hardening under latex, heat pooling between her legs. He hooked his fingers in the neck of her suit and softly trailed it off her shoulders, and just as the chill night air hit her, Vegeta's tongue breached her mouth. He sucked the tight white skin of her neck and dragged his tongue over her collar bone, nipping the dip between them with his teeth.

His thumbs grazed her hardened nipples, and Bulma let out a breath as she unconsciously rubbed her thighs together. His hand trailed upward and clenched in her hair, softly yanking her head back as he forced his thigh between her legs. Bulma saw only the gutters, the shelter of the trees, and a full iridescent moon under lowered lids. His tongue explored the curvature of her ear, his hot breath making her painfully sensitive just as he rocked his thigh back and forth against her. He skimmed the fabric down further off her shoulders and her arms slid out of vinyl with a sensuous hiss. Bulma's mouth parted in anticipation, and he stared at her predatorily before baring her breasts with his fists to the cool night world.

Cupping them in his thick hands, he watched her as he slowly licked the tip of her pebbled nipple. Bulma let on an anguished little cry as she ground against his thigh, fisting his hair and pressing herself harder against him. She was wet, sloppily wet. She was so sensitive she hurt. But Vegeta didn't stop, and Bulma wound her arms above her head, barely recognizing when Vegeta tugged her suit further down her body and around her hips. Just as his teeth closed around her nipple, Vegeta's finger surged into her hot, slick entrance, and she cried out.

"You're so tight," he breathed against her ear, and Bulma felt herself clench in response. He growled and lifted her up, hooking the back of her knee on his arm to gain the leverage to slide his finger against the sweet spot inside her.

"Oh, Vegeta," she moaned, thrusting her hips against his hand. "I want you."

He squeezed her nipple in response, earning a sharp hiss as he introduced another finger inside her, stretching her. Bulma bit at her bottom lip and arched her back, clawing at his suited shoulders.

"You need to be naked. Now," she demanded, feebly searching for the zipper to his own suit. Vegeta chuckled softly against her mouth and slowly, regretfully, pulled his fingers from her core. Bulma couldn't help but let out a whine of disappointment. He gently set her leg down and backed away, smirking all the while as she tried to straighten, pressed up against the cold brick with her suit hanging from her hips. That's when her breath hitched, as Vegeta tucked his fingers under the hem of his suit top and peeled it off with painstaking slowness. Her mouth went dry and she clenched her thighs together. Just as the shirt revealed a set of mouth-watering abs, the shirt stopped its ascent, and he curled his arms behind his back and pulled up at his top, tight black spandex sliding off and revealing wide, smooth pectorals. As he tugged the suit off his arms, his arms bulged with the effort, thickly corded and popping with a weight lifter's dedicated effort. Before he could toss the suit aside, she was pressed against him, winding her fingers between his slender waist and the remainder of his spandex while nipping at his throat. Vegeta, already rock hard, thickened painfully at the feeling of her bare chest smashed against his own.

"Fuck me," she hissed.

Before she could blink, he had grasped her thighs so that she straddled and hung from him as he fiddled with the door knob.

And then stiffened. "What the fuck!" He hollered.

Perplexed, Bulma stared at him as he looked down at his feet, balancing her easily against the door with one arm.

"What?"

"A cat!" He spat. Bulma glanced down and, indeed, a silky black kitten wove itself between Vegeta's legs as it purred approvingly.

Bulma giggled. "Did the kitten scare you, Mr. Vengeance?"

His head snapped up and he glared at her. "You have something claw at your legs with your pants half down and tell me you wouldn't be startled." Regaining his composure as the kitten meowed below them, Vegeta's hands slid down to her ass and groped as he stared at her intently. "Now how the fuck do I get in your house."

"Testy, aren't we?" She teased as she felt for the key on the inside of her boot. Vegeta growled, but she ground against his erection and took his earlobe between her teeth as she slid the key into the door knob behind her, and Vegeta quieted under her attention. He shifted so that his opposite arm pinned her to the door and roughly traced the cleft between her thighs with his free hand. Bulma moaned and mindlessly turned the door knob, spilling them inside her kitchen. Yowling as it was tumbled between their stumbling legs, the kitten dove under the darkness of the kitchen table.

"Damn cat," she heard Vegeta grumble as he yanked her boots and her suit the rest of the way off her while balancing her on his thigh. His hands bat her knees apart successfully, and his fingers delved into her folds.

"I've never seen that cat before," she gasped as she squirmed in his arms, gripping his shoulders and rolling her head against the wall in absorbed pleasure.

He plunged his fingers once more inside her, hoisted her to his hips, and made his way down the hall gracefully before spilling her out onto the bed.

Bulma looked up at him in a sultry sprawl, her legs relaxed and wide open. Vegeta suppressed a growl at the sight. Her curls spilling from her head, she licked her lower lip and slowly eased her fingers down the length of her body to rest against her other lips.

"Vegeta," she purred, "take off your clothes now."

His member throbbed achingly. The little minx was moving her fingers in slow circles over her open clit, its sweet pink wetness clear in the moonlight. He narrowed his eyes at her, promising her that and more. He untied his boots while fixing her with a smoky, intimidating stare and slid the spandex over his thick, muscled hips before stepping out of it. His long, thick member sprang free and hung heavily, pointing upward between his legs. Bulma gaped prettily.

"Too much for you?" He said, gripping it at the base as he strode slowly to the bed and rested one knee heavily on her mattress. Bulma's belly fluttered and her core tightened with anticipation.

"Mr. Vengeance," she breathed, "you could never be too much for me."

He leaned over her as he nestled his hand beneath her head, his compact hips and chest and his spray of hair filling up her vision just as his member nudged her lips open, warmly welcoming him in.

"Ms. Menace," he purred as he folded his fingers between her own and mashed their hands into the pillow above her head, "you haven't seen anything yet." He smirked right as her lips opened in a repartee and plunged into her. She rewarded him with a gasp, her eyes rolling back as she accommodated his size. Vegeta slowly drew back until Bulma whimpered, and then he leaned forward, capturing her lips in his as he moved gently within her. He felt her silky legs wrap around his hips, her heels digging into his ass as he thrust once more into her, urging him on. He gently untangled his hand from hers to run his palm down her side and up again to grip one full breast. He took her nipple between his teeth as he began drawing circles inside her, grinding against her with every thrust.

Bulma pumped against him wildly, sinking her fingers into his hair at the base of his neck. "Vegeta," she moaned.

He leaned back to angle and slide himself against the sweet spot inside her, cupping her breasts in each hand, and she cried out and tightened around him. He felt her inner walls shudder and felt his own release coming. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his hand and kissing her deeply as she cried out into his mouth, bucking furiously against him. Her violent orgasm milked him, and he cried out her name as he unloaded himself inside her.

They gasped for breath, entangled in one another. As the world came back into focus and their hearts slowed their race, Bulma's eyes slowly met his own. Black met blue and waited.

"I'm sorry I came so fast," she finally admitted. "It's been awhile."

They breathed in the other's hot breath. Vegeta's body began to feel heavy on top her, and intuitively, he readjusted, setting his weight off her. Kissing her, they chuckled awkwardly into each others mouth.

Exploring her mouth languidly, he brushed her sides with the back of his hand, his callouses rough against her quilt.

"Good thing I brought back up," he said, as he ran his hands down her thighs, spreading her apart so that he could dip his head between them.

 

IV. "The Toll That Pays Forward"

Bulma absently stirred the chicken fried rice in her wok as she listened to Vegeta grunt into his cell phone at her kitchen table. Reaching behind her and into the fridge, she carefully balanced the soy sauce, a handful of eggs, and a wooden spoon in one bent arm. While she set them carefully down on the counter, one egg haphazardly rolled off and splattered against her shoe. Grumbling, she shuffled over to the paper towels and swiped at the mess on her sneaker as she overheard Vegeta ask, "It's a boy? Why in the hell would you name him that?" She could hear Radditz yelling at Vegeta through the receiver, and Vegeta grouse, "Yeah, sure, bring him over Saturday. Bulma's making sushi. See you then."

Cursing as hot oil splattered onto her arm, she pushed the rice around in the pan before turning off the burner and scooping it onto plates. She sat them on the table just as Vegeta shuffled some papers and tucked them into his brief case, setting it on the floor none too gently and massaging his temples. He began shoveling food in his mouth with gusto and Bulma quickly attacked.

"So? So? What did they name the baby? How big is he? How was her labor? Is everyone doing okay?"

His eyes briefly met hers skeptically before they became absorbed once again in his food. Shoveling the last bit into his mouth, the chair scraped the hard wood as he stood up and made his way over to the stove for seconds. Bulma waited patiently. She was used to his reserved and cynical nature by now.

Vegeta snorted and returned to the table, unbuttoning and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

"Radditz Jr., of course. The self-absorbed bastard. His poor girlfriend never stood a chance. I don't know, average weight, average everything. They're coming over Saturday."  
"Sushi. I heard." She deadpanned. "Yay!" She squealed. "Does this mean we can play poker again?"

"No!" Vegeta's fist pounded on the table and he glared at her. "Never again."

"Aw," she whined. "Don't be butthurt. I let you guys keep your cash."

"You have an uncanny knack for card games and I am not losing $400 to you again."

Bulma looked deflated. He almost laughed, but he didn't want to piss her off.

"Fine," she grumbled. "I'll just play with the baby then."

He smirked, but kept his head lowered over his meal.

After a moment of finishing their meal in silence, she began scraping her remnants of rice into the trash can and rinsing off her plate. He heard her mumble something.  
"What?" He snapped, absently thinking of the paperwork he needed to file tomorrow.

"I said," Bulma quipped, before clearing her throat. "I said, have you ever thought of having children?"

His last bite caught in his throat and he swallowed painfully, glancing up and meeting her nervous gaze.

"Why?" He asked flatly.

Her brow furrowed and she slammed the dishwasher door shut. "Never mind."

He frowned and rose, advancing toward her. "No. Why?"

"It's just a question. We're unmarried thirty somethings, it's natural to wonder about. I was just curious what your take was on kids," she explained in a defensive rush.  
She averted her eyes but he commanded her gaze back with his fingers on her chin.

They stared at each other in silence.

Was she suggesting something? They had been together for a better part of a year now and were living together—in sin, he thought smugly. Never had sinning felt so good. Not even when he sold his soul to Piccolo Daimao for revenge.

"There was never anyone I cared to think about children with until you," he told her roughly, and her expression softened. He held her gaze and caressed her jaw with his thumb. It was his turn to look sidelong. "Not until after our mission," he confided gruffly, before pulling away. "That is my first priority, and should be yours. No fun until we're free from our contracts."

He turned and shrugged back into his jacket, grabbing up his briefcase. "Now, don't you have to leave for class?"

She cast a forlorn look at the clock on the oven and then back at him. "Yes," she admitted weakly.

He made his way across the living room and opened the front door before he turned impassively toward her. "I'll be at Broadway finishing this case. I'll see you after class." He turned and shut the door softly behind him.

Bulma stood frowning in the glaring light of the kitchen, wrapping her arms protectively around her.

"Then what are we, if not 'fun?'" She asked her empty apartment.

* * *

 

"Cell is dead," Black Vengeance informed harshly. "Gero is dead. Hundreds of your minions are dead. Your weapons operations have been obliterated; your warehouses, leveled; your connections, severed; your stockholders, turn tail. What chance do you really think you have? This is the end of the line for you. You might as well tell me where the Boss is and take advantage of the chance to run. Otherwise," the superhero freak's upwards curling smile bobbed in his blackening field of vision, "in a minute, you, too, are just dead."  
The goon struggled to hold to consciousness. He was leaking blood out all over and he wasn't gonna last much longer. That's what he got for trying to make a name for himself and operate this shitty weapons dealership. He had always heard it was curtains once these superhero freaks got a hold of you, except for the few battered, terrified messengers who wound up prostrated in front of the Boss, before he ended them.

He wasn't sure if he was really gonna let him go, but if he could get out of this one, he was gonna damn well try. He didn't want to be in front of the Boss and he sure as hell didn't want to be around when Black Vengeance and Blue Menace dismantled the whole operation. He needed to get to a hospital, and then he needed to grab his girlfriend and hit the road. Eh, screw his girlfriend.

"Alright," he said through a thick throat. "I'll talk. But you gotta stick to your word."

"Of course."

He spit a gob of blood on the floor beside him, and then straightened, shaking his oily hair out of his eyes. "Look, you ain't getting anywhere. It don't matter if you take everyone and everything out. You can't get past the 88's, and if you did, you AIN'T gettin' past 17 and 18. They're unbeatable. Trust me, you could drop a nuke on 'em and they wouldn't blink. They guard the Boss. So the Boss ain't goin' nowhere. The Boss don't tell no one where he is except them. And so you got nowhere to go. But I'll tell ya what. If you let me go, on the honor of your spandex, or whatever. I know how you superhero types are about honor."

"On my honor."

All the goon could see from him was a stern mouth in a hard jaw and black, black eyes. The goon fought down dread and continued.

"The Boss masquerades as a Red Ribbon employee. He ain't a CEO or nothin'. That's how he keeps himself safe and outta the spotlight, ya know? You never know who you're talking to there at Red Ribbon, it could be him, it could be just a janitor. Now, it's said that he don't go nowhere without 17 and 18 following him, but you ain't gonna see them. He's smarter than that. But it's said he's got a good friend, a friend that ain't a part of Red Ribbon. He works on the outside, in the media, rumor has it. And he's the only other asshole who has as much power as the Boss. He controls the media, he pays off the cops...he's the arm of this whole operation. The Boss is just the brains."

"Go on."

"You could freeze all Red Ribbon's assets, you could wipe all us mafiosos out. But he's got this man on the inside, a real smart businessman masquerading as a playboy. Ain't nobody think anything of him, except who he's fucking. And this man knows about his cover, his army of 88's, what he's got his hands on. Look, that's all I know. Now you gonna let me go?"

He had to get someone to patch him up quick, then he'd hit the bank and beat the hell out of here.

That's when he saw Vengeance leisurely pull a sinister blade from his belt, a teethed scythe that was as ominous as his toothy grin, both glinting in the streetlight filtering in from the large industrial windows.

"But-but, you promised!"

The figure, just a shadow against the windows, put a slender cigarette to his mouth. The dry tick of a flint sparking sounded throughout the room, and the tip of the cigarette grew a fierce blue ember. Sweat dripped into the goon's eyes, and he began rocking back and forth, trying desperately to dislodge the ropes.

"You made the wrong assumption about me. You assumed I'm just some run of the mill vigilante in costume." An ephemeral cloud of smoke lazed around him as he stood rakishly against the shadows. "You assumed I had honor." His savage grin filled up the goon's vision. "But all Hell's got is pride."

The scythe plunged into the goon with a thick force and overwhelming anguish bloomed in the man's side. It was quickly trumped by the blue fire licking around Black Vengeance and beginning its excruciating crawl up his feet, fiery pain tracing paisley patterns up his pants. Pain became all, he became pain...

"The Devil told me if I saw you, Baby, to give you a more personal welcoming into the Afterlife. See you in Hell," the man in the mask said, the pinpoint of the cigarette blazing momentarily in the dark as he dragged on it, before the goon's screams racked the building.

* * *

 

Vegeta drew sharply from the spiced cigarette and then flicked the butt to the gravel before squishing its tiny hellfire out with his boot. He was damned lucky Bulma was a genius and had considered concealment technology on their bikes, or they would have been found out by now. All their equipment and suits were outfitted with sound and vision-proofed 'bubbles', which was a gift not only for their mission but to their neighbors at this early hour. His damned motorcycle engine was still ringing in his ears.  
He glanced around cautiously before he opened the back door, peeling off his mask and running his fingers through his hair. He sighed as his belt opened with a click and he sat it on the counter. He lifted his Aldebaran over his head and sat it carefully on the counter when he was startled by the fridge closing. He glanced up.

Bulma stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a waif. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and her oversized night shirt hung to her knees. She surveyed him quietly, a steaming mug clasped in her hands.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked softly.

After a moment, he nodded. She went to the cupboard and pulled out another mug, filling it quietly with water and dropping a ball of tea into it as he stepped out of his boots and capsulized it all. He jumped when he felt her cool thumb trail softly over the sharp curve of his cheek.

"You have blood spatter on you. Rough night?"

"Yes," he admitted gruffly.

Her hand continued trailing down, over the planes of his chest and abs before settling into the dip between his hip and groin.

"Did you miss me?"

"I always miss you," she smiled up at him warmly.

He jerked his head toward the bathroom. "Come with."

She followed behind him and settled onto the ceramic toilet lid as he stripped off his boxer briefs and stepped into the shower before turning it on.

"So?" She asked him, as the scent of bar soap wafted around her.

He grunted, barely audible over the shower spray.

"How did it go?"

After a minute, the shower shut off and the curtain screeched open, unveiling a dripping hard body. Bulma suppressed the urge to lick the droplets cascading down his member and met his eyes. He tossed the towel over his head and began rubbing furiously, but not before shooting her a knowing smirk. He carelessly toweled off the rest of his body and threw the towel into the hamper, feet slapping on the wood floor as he made his way to their bedroom.

"Cell is dead. He met his end at the end of my Aldebaran."

He heard Bulma suck in air and then sigh in the dark before settling on the bed.

"And Baby?"

The dresser drawer clacked closed and she heard the wisp of fabric as he pulled on some boxer briefs and a cotton t-shirt.

He sat beside her, the bed caving around his weight.

"He admitted to drug and weapons trafficking after a rough fist fight. Once I subdued him, he traded his life for information. He didn't leave with it though."

"Providing weapons that kill innocents and drugs that wreak havoc on communities is the least of his crimes," Bulma issued harshly. "How about child pornography and serially sexually assaulting and murdering women, for starters?" Bulma let out a forceful sigh. "So Cell is dead. I can't believe Baby talked. Did he have anything helpful to say?"  
"All he could tell me was the Boss masquerades as some schmuck employee at Red Ribbon. He also has a friend, wouldn't you know. Some businessman playboy is his right hand. And evidently this guy knows all the grease."

Bulma frowned. "That's intriguing." She rested her head on her fist. "No matter how deep we get, no matter what top advisers we take out, no one ever gives up information on the operation. But Baby did. Can we trust him?"

"We've made huge strides in the last year. It's only time before we start planning our attack on the 88's. If we can't wiggle out any more details about the Boss or this co-conspirator, whether or not the information is reliable, then we'll just meet them head on. We've come this far with the powers of Kami and Piccolo at our backs. We might leave with a few scratches, but it's only time now."

"You're being overconfident," she argued. "The man hasn't built an empire of drug lords, media outlets, prostitution rings and child labor for 20 years without excelling at his defense. This is going to take some more consideration and strategy."

Vegeta sighed in derision and ran his hands over his face before leaning over to pin her under his weight.

"Stop talking," he murmured against her mouth, and sucked at her lower lip.

"We're going to have to be very, very careful, Vegeta, we can't just rush into this convinced we're undefeatable."

He pulled her shirt up over her head and left it there, descending down her body as she huffed and wrestled to get it off her head. "Vegeta!" She scolded him, laughing dryly.  
He ran his fingernails lightly up the inside of her thighs, and she stilled. He leaned in and pulled the crotch of her pink panties to the side and sucked softly at the crown of her clit.

"I told you not to talk, woman."

"I love it when you talk into it." Bulma stifled a moan, writhing against the quilt.

"Well, that's too bad, 'cuz I don't have too much to say," he teased.

Bulma growled. "Get to work, sidekick."

"I think," he drawled, flipping her over with ease to straddle his thighs, "that I'm deserving of some work, myself, tonight."

Bulma rolled her eyes, but with his help, tugged his underwear down his hips, rubbing a wet trail over his hardening cock.

"I want cinnamon bagels waiting for me in the morning, then."

Vegeta softly growled and tugged her hair. "Just ride me, woman, and I'll see what I can do."

Delicately, Bulma raised her hips and settled onto him, his cock helpfully braced in his fist. They both let out a sigh as she slowly slid down his length, and once he was all the way in, she dropped to rest on his chest, her soft hands clutching his clean scented t-shirt.

"I love you," she murmured, her breath a hot tickle against his neck.

The goons thoughts came back to him, the wishy-washy, mission-oriented gift of telepathy that Piccolo had bestowed on him, like an old tv that had to be hit to work right. The insipid, beautiful woman the goon had shacked up with in a townhouse surrounded by palms; the embittered wife and son on the North side who he occasionally threw cash at to keep quiet.

As Bulma leisurely rocked against him, Vegeta thought back to his encounter with the goon. Why did Kami let these sick fucks live, breed, breathe? A wave of resolve curled around him. As Bulma began picking up the pace, soft little pants at harmony with his hips as he began to buck uncontrollably against her, he knew what he had to do. Destiny be damned.

* * *

Kitty sprawled sleepily in Bulma's lap as she scrawled one last comment on a stack of papers she was grading. The cat's tail flicked against Bulma's knee in irritation as Bulma sat the last paper on the end table and reached down to pick up the newspaper. Bulma distractedly pet her as she snapped the newspaper open, and the cat sunk back into contentment with a light purr.

Bulma's eyes glanced up at the clock. "About fifteen more minutes and Vegeta will be home, Kitty." The pleased vibrations intensified under Bulma's hand and she began scouring the newspaper again. Weather, mayor up for re-election, new construction going up downtown.

Bulma's eyes trailed disinterestedly over the op-ed pieces when she backed up, thoughts stalling.

In the last section, an opinion piece on the new spokesman for City Bank and a key investiture in Red Ribbon...

_"A former minor league baseball player turned businessman, the city's newest eligible bachelor is swimming in connections and wealth..._   
_'If the right lady appears, well then, I'll take notice. But for now, I'm focusing on a successful partnership between the government and Red Ribbon Enterprises.'_   
_Until then, ladies, unless you're knee deep in the accounting firm of Red Ribbon, don't hold your breath for this eligible bachelor of West City."_

To the left was a black and white photo of a handsome plutocrat, his thick black hair in a crest over his charming smile. Not as handsome as Vegeta, she thought absently. There was just the hint of a scar that stretched over his left eye, like a well-mended seam. It did nothing to detract from his good looks, except for the cunning glint in his eye as he shook hands with the top financier of Red Ribbon.

"Bingo," Bulma breathed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of consideration for my readers, this chapter has trigger warnings for sexual assault. Please bear in mind that the last half of this chapter may be difficult to read.

Pt. III

  
V. "Out Of The Frying Pan, Into The Fire"

  
Yamcha Matsumoto waltzed through the throng of well-dressed lobbyists and contributors of the Red Ribbon banquet, shaking hands, nodding at business acquaintances, and voicing his thanks with unadulterated confidence. There was no doubt that this banquet would rack up the zennis required to fund his latest venture, never mind the racketeering that he had stirred up among the investors of his former baseball team, convincing them to dump their life savings into Red Ribbon stock. He reviewed the crowd with glee and resisted the urge to laugh in their faces. He was moving to sit on top of the world once Red rewarded him with the vice president's chair and office in the old Capsule Corp building. Fame, women, wealth...what more could a man want?

As the mayor—in his pocket, as well—encouraged them to raise their glass in a salute to the continued success of West City, Yamcha brought the flute of champagne to his lips, and the clusters of insulated wealthy in front of him parted, slowly revealing a sylph-like blue haired beauty sitting in a svelte gold dress at the bar, sipping delicately at a glass of wine.

Yamcha, to his own surprise, did a double take.

Her dress glittered elegantly in the soft glow of the bar lights and complimented the glossy blue curls struggling to be free of two pearl combs at her neck. Her movements seemed in rhythm with the tinker of glass and din of dinner table conversation. There was something otherworldly about her, and Yamcha was certainly not a religious man. As the woman recrossed her legs, her dress rode up momentarily on her thigh, revealing creamy pale skin. Yamcha's adam's apple bobbed as he cleared his throat and tossed his empty champagne flute onto the tray of a passing waiter. He brushed his fingernails through his thick black hair, smoothing his lapels and puffing up with his typical bravado as he made his way toward her.

The woman was just lowering her wine glass from her parted lips when Yamcha slid in the seat beside her. He gave the bartender a churlish smile and signaled for two more of what she was having. The woman glanced at him but continued staring quietly at the reflection of the banquet in the mirrored wall in front of her. The bartender set two chilled glasses of wine in front of them indifferently and walked off to fulfill another order.

"Thank you," the woman murmured coolly.

"Are you here for the Red Ribbon banquet?" Yamcha asked genially.

The woman turned her body towards him and plucked one of the wine glasses in front of him, regarding him with a wry smile as she took a strong sip. He was surprised at his body's response to her, how breathtaking he found her. The past few years he had run through a slew of women, but none of them had made him feel such gut deep desire before. Her eyes were an unusually bright blue, wide and framed by long black lashes in a classically heart shaped face. Her lips had a plump, glossy pink cupid's bow that he really wanted to see her bite with pleasure. The sweetheart neckline of the strapless gown lifted her large breasts like creamy offerings.

Women had always been his weakness. Good thing none of them were smart enough to stay away.

"Actually, my family is. I'm just here for the cocktails." She sent him another reserved smile and turned back to regarding the wall of wine bottles in front of her as she emptied the last dregs of her wine glass.

"Can I buy you another drink?" He offered, smiling down at her graciously.

She sat the crystal down with a delicate tap and leaned over to adjust the strap of her heel, unknowingly giving him a mouth watering view of her décolletage as she stood. Yamcha was surprised by how short she was; even with heels, the beauty barely topped his chest.

"No thanks. I'm all finished here."

"Wait! What about a dance?" Yamcha tossed his hair out of his face, which fell in a curl back over his eyes boyishly as he grabbed her lean white arm.

"I'm not interested," she replied wryly, glancing at his grip on her arm with disdain. Such a little thing, for all that attitude.

He removed his hand quickly from her arm and held it out. "Yamcha. Yamcha Matsumoto." When she peered up at him from under one winged brow, he sputtered. "Please, just one dance. And then you can continue on as if you never knew me." He smiled broadly, his straight white teeth gleaming, covering his irritation at her obliviousness to his notoriety with grit teeth.

One side of her delicious lips curved upward. "Persistent, aren't you?" She let out a huff and extended her own hand, and as her hand slid into his, his nerves jolted. Her skin was impossibly soft as she shook his hand with a brief, firm grip.

"Maron," she informed him huskily. "Maron Susoro."

"Well, Maron," Yamcha breathed, knee deep in the unfamiliar stupor of infatuation. "May I have this dance?"

She was the only woman who hadn't immediately fallen all over herself to impress and entice him. In fact, she was seducing him, with her smug half-smile that he just wanted to forcefully fuck off her pretty face. She was the only woman he'd encountered yet that very well may put up a fight in bed.

He had to have her.

The woman's lips spread into a lazy, knowing smile, eyes twinkling below well-shaped blue brows, and his cock twitched to life when she consented breathily. "Alright, but don't hold it against me if I'm more than you expected."

* * *

 

Bulma trekked through the crowd, passing underneath paper lanterns strung over the sidewalk, strings of white lights laced down light poles and general festival merriment. It was fall again, and the Harvest Festival was at full swing in the center of her little town. She adjusted her loose trench coat against the chill and clutched her books a little closer to her chest as she passed through a group of rowdy college students. As she pulled away from them towards the dark quiet of her street, where the festival fray began to weaken, a man fell in step beside her.

"Fancy seeing you here," she commented, glancing at Vegeta with warmth.

He sighed and put his arm around her waist as they walked.

"I get it, I'm practically a stranger," he admitted gruffly. "But I got out of work early tonight." His smile was wolfish.

She smirked up at him and came to a stop, clasping the lapels on his black trench coat.

"Hmm. And just what are you expecting to happen?"

He moved his lips closer to hers and returned her warm smile. "Well, I was hoping you'd join me for dinner, and then I'd walk you home, and you can relax on the couch while I peel off those boring brown slacks you're wearing and start eating that wonderful little pink pussy of yours. And if you like where that is going, I'd be happy to tease this cock inside you and prove to you just how very, very sorry I am that I've been so busy with work."

"Nice try, buster," she teased him huskily, beaming up at him. "But you're going to have to do a lot more than that to make up missing my board speech last night."

He pulled her close, pressing his erection softly into her, smoothing the hair above her ear as he leaned down into it, his hot breath making her shiver. "Are you sure, woman?"

She let out a helpless little sigh and looped her arms around his neck, his briefcase bumping against her ass as she kissed him softly.

"I've missed you, Ouji."

One hand moved up to cradle her head as he mumbled against her lip, "And I've missed you, Ms. Briefs. Now how about you join me for dinner."

"Considering I was going to eat three day old leftover spaghetti," she replied dryly, "I may take you up on your offer. But I'm in my work clothes," she complained, gesturing at her loose brown slacks, shapeless trench coat, and gray sweater with displeasure.

Vegeta snorted and pulled her back into the crowd and into a nearby bistro, an old brick two story building with striped awnings, lace curtains, and its fair share of Friday night carousing.

"Two for Ouji," Vegeta told the hostess briskly, hand on the small of Bulma's back.

The hostess' enthusiastic smile widened and she grabbed two menus from under her stand. "Right this way, Mr. Ouji."

The hostess led them through the ruckus and up the stairs to the more quiet rooftop, where a dozen tables were roomily arranged under strings of white paper lanterns. A band played up front, and a few couples danced and mingled in front of them. Heaters blasted them, hidden in the viney lattice overhead. A single candle and a fat little vase of geraniums adorned their table. The pair stripped off their jackets and settled into their seats, Vegeta ordering a bottle of wine before the server could open his mouth.

"I don't think I've ever eaten here before," she said, looking around her at the romantic little atmosphere appreciatively.

"That's because you've never had a boyfriend as dashing as I am."

"Or a man who had the need to make up the full month and a half he's spent in his office," she retorted, and Vegeta sent her a playful glare.

"You better watch it, woman, or we'll be going dutch."

She smiled sweetly at him as the server sat their wine glasses in front of them and twisted the cork open, filling their glasses before sitting the bottle down carefully on the table and asking them if they'd like to hear the night's specials.

"Two steaks, one rare with the works, the other medium. Pesto on the side of hers. Side salads with oil and vinegar, hold the olives. A baked potato for me, cheesy mashed potatoes for the woman. And two slices of cherry cheesecake."

Bulma looked at him in amusement as the server jotted it down quickly and took their menus.

"I hadn't even popped my menu open yet."

"Don't worry," Vegeta replied smoothly. "I knew what you wanted."

"Apparently." A smile tugged at her lips. "I'm so lucky you know what I like."

"No, I'm lucky I know what you like. And you better believe I know what you like."

Bulma smiled bashfully and hid it with a sip of wine. "How far have you gotten on your case? Far enough to tear yourself away for an evening, I see."

Vegeta gulped back his wine, looking shiftily at the ground, and then cleared his throat. "It's coming along. I don't know whether to feel grateful for the profit of all this work or pout because of it. But it's going. Hopefully I'll be able to finish the final paperwork at the end of next week, but then I'll be right back where I started once we go to court a few days later. The boss has even mentioned that I'll need a hotel room near the courthouse throughout the first few weeks." He glanced at her, measuring, as the server placed their salads on their woven place mats.

"Wow. This is really a high profile case, huh," she asked as she pulled a bite of salad off her fork with her teeth.

He sent her a cutting glance. "You know it is. There's only so much I can do as Black Vengeance. Being a high profile lawyer provides me the leverage to stomp them out where he can't reach."

She placed her hand on top of his, giving him a caring smile. "There's no need to be defensive, V. I understand what you have to do. I'm not resentful."

He gulped another glass of wine down, squeezed her hand, and then pulled away to pull out his cigarette case, placing one between his lips and cupping his hands to light it with his finger, for all intents and purposes looking as if he were shielding his lighter from the wind.

He took a drag off his cigarette and blew it out between his nostrils.

"Enough about my job. I want to pretend like our work doesn't exist tonight. All our jobs."

"Alright, tough guy. Then I guess I should confess to you I watched the season finale of Bone Collector without you."

Vegeta sucked in smoke quickly and tried not to cough, narrowing his eyes at her. "How could you."

She grinned. "I'm sorry! I couldn't resist! I had a moment of weakness!"

"I will be taking that out on your hide later tonight." Bulma blushed crimson as the server placed their meals in front of them.

Two bottles of wine and a good meal later, the rooftop had become crowded, and the server came to take their dishes.

Vegeta stood and loosened his tie, shrugging off his suit jacket, the white button up dress shirt stretching across his wide chest and thick biceps. The liquor and light from the lanterns softened his usually stern expression, and he looked down at her sensuously and extended his hand.

"Dance with me, woman."

Bulma's throat tightened and she suppressed a giddy smile. "You know I'm no good at dancing," she reasoned.

"A woman as talented as you at twisting men's necks between her thighs and riding me until I'm begging you to let me cum in you can't not be good at dancing."

"You're on a roll tonight." She stood abruptly, placing her hand in his. The round, orange moon hung behind him like a sigil and he smiled at her benevolently.

"A woman as amazing as you deserves every compliment a gentleman could give her, and frankly," he said, pulling her close and speaking against her lips, "a woman like you deserves every inch of this hard cock inside her." He kissed her gently, slipping his tongue into her mouth as he felt her relax into his arms, tasting her sweet mouth and her wine-soured lips. "You deserve a night all about you. Kami knows I haven't been the best companion lately."

She squeezed his waist reassuringly and swept her own tongue through his familiarly clean, clove-flavored mouth. "I couldn't ask for a better man, Vegeta," she reassured him softly. She looked up at him earnestly. "I wouldn't change you for the world."

"Is that so?" A rare grin graced his handsome face, and he glanced at her almost shyly before kissing her quickly. He tugged on her waist and led her toward the band. "Then dance with me."

Although she felt silly and clumsy dancing to the bluesy folk music, Vegeta bestowed her with an amused smile all the while, his dimples making him even more charming.

Somehow they fell into a rhythm, and their chuckles at her expense settled into a quiet, peaceful slow dance. Under dozens of paper lanterns and a blanket of stars, Bulma and Vegeta swayed slightly to the slow melody. She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed in his scent contentedly, one arm draped across his neck, her other hand interlaced with his own.

"Bulma," she heard him call roughly in her ear, breaking the spell. "Bulma, kiss me."

She lifted her head dreamily from his shoulder and kissed his warm inviting lips, closing her eyes serenely.

Vegeta pulled back slightly and looked at her intensely, an expression at odds with the tranquility of the night.

"Bulma," he began once again, shifting his gaze to the ground and then back up at her with something akin to nervousness.

"Yes?" She asked, concerned.

"I love you," he admitted roughly, searching her face for rejection, his posture stiff.

Bulma's face split into a wide smile. "I love you, too," she returned.

Vegeta slowly untangled himself from her and bent to one knee, reaching into his pocket, staring at her as the band and crowd hushed.

Bulma's confusion turned into alarm as he pulled out a black velvet ring box. His face, just minutes ago relaxed, was now tight with seriousness, his jet gaze beseeching her, solemnly. Slowly, he opened the ring box, and sure enough, perched inside glittered a solitary diamond on a twisted white gold band. She lost her breath and her mind wheeled to a stop as she heard a few patrons gasp in the crowd.

"Would you do me the honor of being my wife?"

Her hand unconsciously moved to her heart, and her mouth gaped dumbly. She stared at the ring, and then at Vegeta, who kneeled, regarding her anxiously. To her embarrassment, tears sprang to her eyes, and she choked on her words.

Clearing her throat, a grin broke on her face, stunning him.

"Yes," she agreed throatily. "Yes, of course!"

The crowd broke out into claps and whistles as Vegeta rose fluidly and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her within an inch of her life. Tears cascaded down her round cheeks, and she sniffled and hugged him tightly. "Whether you are Bulma Briefs or the Blue Menace, I promise I'll always be your man," he rasped in her ear over the revival of the music, slipping the ring on her slender finger. She admired the ring before she turned to regard him with utter joy. She kissed him hard on the mouth and beamed. "Vegeta Ouji, I promise to be your girl." She laughed exquisitely. "Forever. For always!"

He chuckled into her mouth, unable to let her go. She turned her head in surprise as a few students and faculty members patted her on the back, congratulating her. She wiped at her eyes and issued a warbly thank you.

Vegeta enfolded her even more deeply into his embrace, resting his chin on her curly blue head.

"Forever and for always," he rumbled.

"I swear it," he heard her return from beneath him.

"Now lets go home so I can show you all the things I will be doing to you as your husband-to-be."

"Oh, there's more?"

His hands moved subtly over her hips, and his tone turned smoky. "Oh, there's a lot more. I've been holding out on you."

"If it has at all to do with my other hole, I'm not impressed."

Someone handed them both a flute of bubbling champagne, and someone else asked them if they needed a ride home, sensing their intoxication. "No, we'll be walking," Vegeta reassured him, before turning to Bulma, fixing her with a smirk that heated her through. "But it does involve you spread out on top of the Capsule Corp building."

Bulma sputtered, and he laughed, kissing her surprised face. "Come home with me."

Bulma nuzzled her head into his neck before pulling back and smiling happily. "Always and forever," she crowed. He smiled briefly before pressing the champagne flute to his lips, waiting for her to follow suit, and they both knocked the champagne down in agreement.

* * *

 

"Oh, Popo," Bulma moaned from the grass, "those roses smell wonderful." She stretched her arms over her head as she lay on her back, taking in the vast blue sky. She heard Mr. Popo shuffling around in the flowers and the tinkling of water as he slaked his pet project's endless thirst.

"Thank you, Bulma. You seem awfully happy today."

"Life is good," she sighed, running her fingers through her hair and letting the sunlight warm her face. Up here, in the Heavens, the cold seasons could not reach, and Popo took full advantage of it.

She heard Popo still, and then his voice carry. "Kami can see you now, Bulma."

She sat up lazily and picked grass from her hair. Pushing herself up with her hands, she slapped her hands together and made her way towards Kami's atrium. The air was cool under the ornate domed ceiling, and she spotted Kami leaning on his staff and staring out the window.

"What's up?" She called as she approached the wizened caretaker of her realm.

"Come to surprise me with a visit?" He warbled, turning to her with a doting smile on his face.

"It's been a while. I thought it was about time for a visit," she chirruped cheerfully, sitting down on a bench beside him.

"How are things?"

She smiled, amused. "You should know that, you see everything."

He smiled again, looking out over the horizon. "You know the magic I imparted to you precludes me from watching you, child. That's why it's so important for you to stay safe."

"Of course, Kami-sama. Things are going well. We've almost got Red Ribbon cornered."

"We?"

"Oh. Well, yes, I mean, you and I, rhetorically," she explained nervously at her slip up.

"Your progress is ahead of schedule, then. I"m proud of you, child. What's the game plan?"

"I think I can challenge him by the summer solstice," she insisted, her mouth set in a firm line. "I'm at his doorstep, Kami. I've just got to pry a little more information from a source, and I think I'll have enough background to face him without fear."

"When that day comes, I wish you the best of luck. I will not be able to help you, as divine law prevents me from it. But my magic will part the veils of time once the war has begun, and I will be able to watch you serve him a lifetimes worth of divine justice." Kami's leathered face hardened.

"Of course, Master. Your hard work will finally bear fruit soon. I'd stake my life on it."

"You already have, child. I could not ask for more. You are...like a daughter to me, you know."

Bulma sank to her knees and clasped his rough hand in her own. "I'm honored to do this for you, Master."

"Together, we're going to change the world, like a phoenix arising from the ashes." Kami watched geese fly over the swells of cumulus, the setting sun drenching the cloud cover in vibrant oranges and pinks.

"Now, stand, and tell me if you like these new chrysanthemums Popo planted. He says they're good for your health, but I don't care much for their sickly sweet smell. Between you and me, of course." His voice dipped into a whisper.

 

VI. "Green As Grass And As Vomit"

  
Bulma shuffled to the kitchen in a baggy shirt, sweat pants, and oversized slippers.

"Ugh," she moaned, pressing her hand to her chest as she fought down heartburn and a sour stomach. She pulled the whistling teapot off the burner and plucked a mug from the dish drain. Tossing the slotted tea spoon into the mug with a clink and pouring the steaming water over it, she watched as the water turned from a translucent clear to a murky green. Ginger and lemon wafted upwards, and, sighing at her turn of events—a weekend that was supposed to be spent sleuthing Yamcha while Vegeta was holed up at the opposite side of the city—had turned into a camp out on the couch nursing a stomach virus.

She had done her homework, faking an alias and providing the paper trail to back it up should Yamcha grow suspicious. Yamcha was no small fry, and since he had been pursuing her for a few months, she would hazard a guess that he had done a background check on her. Luckily for her, her encryptions would hold up against any Red Ribbon hacker.

She pulled out her phone and typed a request for a rain check as she sipped at her tea. Just as she went to sit the phone down, it vibrated.

"Well, that was fast." She sat her cup down.

_Aw not feeling well? I could bring you some chicken noodle soup ;-)_

"Gross," she muttered.

_Are you partial to vomit breath?_

She smirked as it sent. Pig. For a high ranking Red Ribbon associate, he was easy to read. Weren't they all? All she had to do was string him along until he spilled. He wasn't used to women rejecting him, and it was driving him crazy. Exploiting it was a no-brainer. But he texted her constantly. She was lucky Vegeta had been nearly AWOL these last few months. She didn't want to alarm him, should he ever get his ass home to notice another man was texting her.

Now that they were happily engaged, and he was in the thick of a very draining court hearing, she didn't want to worry him with the details of the misadventures she was having trying to extract information from the nefarious playboy. She didn't think Vegeta would get the wrong idea if she simply explained it to him, but because he had little time to watch over her, she knew he'd ask her to shut it down. Pursuing Yamcha was risky.

And she just couldn't. In her gut, she felt like something very important was hiding behind Yamcha Matsumoto. They were so close to uncovering the mystery and the figurehead behind Red Ribbon, and she knew it bothered him that he couldn't spend as much time chasing down bad guys as arguing with their lawyers in a court of law. So she wanted to surprise him by having all the pieces in place once the litigation ended. It was the least she could do as he slaved away in court for days on end, poor guy.

Now if only she could keep Yamcha's greasy hands off her. He was clearly just itching to undress her. It was repulsive.

This was a precarious game she was playing, but if she could spin his infatuation and lust out long enough, she'd have it all in the bag.

_I'll pass. How about Thursday 6 pm the Beaumont? My treat._

_See you then._

_Wear that dress I first saw you in. ;-) Feel better_

"Hmph. Jerk," she mumbled as she sat the phone down on the couch and took another sip of tea.

Bulma slapped her hand over her mouth and raced to the bathroom as it threatened to come back up, losing both her tea and her breakfast in the toilet. After a few dry heaves, she flushed and rinsed out her mouth with mouthwash. Patting her clammy face with a cool washcloth, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She looked haggard. Hopefully this virus was out of her system by Thursday or she was going to be eating Tums by the handful in between Yamcha's come-ons.

She loosened the drawstring of her sweat pants and pushed them down, flopping onto the toilet to pee. Again. This virus must have came with a bonus UTI, too.

As crappy as she felt, she had papers to grade, papers she was actually looking forward to from her graduate students, about the implications of string theory on the force of gravity and whether or not it could spell out a solution to time travel. She was mentoring some good kids, and she was excited to hear their ideas on the subject. Resolved to get some work done despite how she felt, she stripped off her remaining clothes and turned the shower head on, her tummy growling at her in response.

She stepped into the hot spray and turned her back to relax under it. Squeezing soap onto a poof, she worked a lather over her legs, making absent minded circles with it up her belly, swiping the poof over her chest. She jerked back painfully. Her boobs were sore. Must be nearing that time of the month. When was she due? She had been so busy with work and teasing out the riddle behind Yamcha that she hadn't kept track of her last period. Not like it mattered, anyway. She wasn't getting any since Vegeta had shacked up temporarily in the city. The last time they had really made love was over a month ago, when Vegeta had found time to dash home, drive into her mercilessly against the kitchen table, eat dinner, and race back out again.

The washcloth slipped from her fingers.

Bulma remembered, with painful clarity, forgetting to take her pill that night.

And not just that night. That whole week, like a total airhead, until she had picked up the pack and returned to her contraceptive ritual as though nothing had happened. She had been so busy...she just hadn't been thinking with all that had been going on this spring...she was so stupid...

Bulma's stomach turned, but this time, she didn't make it to the toilet.

* * *

 

In the Divine Rulebook of Heavenly Intervention, the Kai's had drawn out a dense and detailed explanation of navigation of the acceptable paths to justice. Kami had made her read and reread the book until besieged by a splitting headache, and then he drilled her in possible scenarios she would encounter in the defense of Divine Justice until she lay on the floor begging him to stop.

"Bureaucracy is the lifeblood of the Heavens, child," he had chided her, "just as it is on Earth. Earth is no exception to it. But our rules are followed strictly to the letter, to make it fair to all and to allow responsible decision making. The problem with Earth's overemphasis on bureaucracy is that the ones in charge don't abide by it, and the one's who can't afford to be in charge are oppressed by it. This isn't just an assassination mission, Bulma. This is much more than that. This is a total attempt to bring balance back to the world we have come to call home."

Bulma snorted. Although a bright and compassionate teenager, she was still predisposed to the sassiness of adolescence, and Kami's nose wrinkled in distaste as he waited for her usual surly lecture. The child was so hard-headed about things which she had attached some emotion to that he had to bite his cheek to curb his impatience. Popo assured him it was natural for teenagers to question the world and set themselves squarely for or against certain things, to begin carving out the identities which would carry them through the rest of their life. But what did Popo know. Bulma spoiled him.

"It's not my world," she chuffed testily. "It cast me out, spat on me, and then kicked me around until you saved me. I couldn't be happier being up here in the clouds away from it all."

Kami knew bitterness still had its fangs in her and sorrowed at it. Although it was his job to harness and redirect it towards their goal, regardless of the ethics of it, he was sad to see it chip away at the fun, sweet girl he knew her to be underneath her circumstances. He hoped that she would outgrow it, before it left her an empty shell, alone, with only the walls of Heaven to bounce her misery off.

"Soon, you will have to go back, and finish what you started. Don't you want to continue your studies at the university? Time cannot stand still for you forever."

Bulma sighed and rolled on her side, ripping grass out of the dirt and letting it fall back to the ground.

"Yes, I want to go back," she whined. "But I don't want to go back to the city. I hate that city. I just want to obliterate Red Ribbon and then live out my days an old maid in peace."

Kami chuckled. "You say that now. But what about when a cute boy comes along?"

Bulma giggled at just how cute "cute" sounded coming from God's lips.

"No thanks. I don't need anybody. 'Cept you, Kami." She sprang up sleekly, planting a kiss on the old man's cheek before descending into a flurry of backflips and punches.  
"So you say. But everyone needs friendship and companionship. That's what we're fighting in defense of, Bulma. The beautiful, companionable side of human nature."

Bulma ignored him in favor of a string of katas.

Kami's eyes twinkled. "What about when you settle down, get married, and start a family?"

Bulma once again harrumphed and backflipped, but landed on her butt when she twisted too far to the left. Her face scrunched up in pain and she rubbed her butt sourly.

"Noooooo thanks."

"Well, just remember, if the time ever comes for you to fall in love and have a child, your duties to Heaven must be finalized, and then you will have my blessing. So don't grow up on me just yet."

A final snort drifted to him from the roses as she loped toward the snack tray Popo had sat on a table.

Popo spoiled her.

"That will never happen, Kami. Get your grandkids somewhere else! I'm a one woman show. I'm like Batman...no, wait! Like Catwoman. Hey, do you think you could teach me to be proficient with a whip?" Her chatter grew faint from behind a wall of roses. "I'm an anti-hero," she was chattering. "I don't make friends, I just get the job done," she said dramatically through a mouthful of cookie crumbs.

* * *

 

She stared at the stick before she threw it against the wall and slammed her head back against the bathroom wall. She sprawled out onto the cold floor, releasing a sigh.

How on Earth could this have happened? Things like this didn't happen to her. She was a superhero, for pete's sake. She was above logic.

The scientist in her bristled at the thought, and she conceded and took it back. She was allowed to pout, damnet.

"I cannot believe this is happening," she said out loud to no one, her voice echoing in the bathroom.

She felt for another pregnancy test on the floor. Her hands brushed against light plastic and she picked it up, holding it above her face, narrowing her eyes at the small, blank screen, resolved to try one more time. Surely there was such thing as a false positive? Stranger things had happened, right? And she was no stranger to strange things. Cripes, she could smite sinners with a flick of her wrist. Shit like this, normal, everyday girl problems, they just didn't happen to her.

She pulled herself up squeamishly and sat down on the toilet again, hoping a trickle would be sufficient. She was about all out of pee at this point, glancing around at an array of scattered, used pregnancy tests, despite the frequent pressure on her bladder.

How was she going to finish her mission? How was she going to tell Kami? Cripes, how was she going to tell Vegeta? Sure, it could be a...nice...thing...to happen to them, but not now. Not when he was so busy, not when she was working Yamcha and they were so close to eliminating Red Ribbon, and definitely, positively not when Vegeta had been so resistant to the idea of having kids.

But he cares enough about me to ask me to marry him, right? Bulma daydreamed on the toilet. If a man as closed off as he is wants to permanently invite me into his life, then he wouldn't hold it against me. I mean, he might have a few choice words to say about my common sense, as usual, but it wouldn't be a deal breaker, would it?

He wouldn't...he wouldn't break off their engagement because of it, would he? She worried her lip anxiously.

There are always...options, Bulma considered. I don't have to carry this baby to term. He'll be busy all month. He need never know.

Bulma, remembering just what she was doing, glanced back down at the peed on stick of purple plastic dangling from her hand, a clear, fat positive marking the little view screen.

"Awwww, fuck. I just can't."

 

VII. "Shame Is The Shadow Of Love"

Yamcha tucked his kerchief back into his pocket and smiled vainly.

"If you had seen his face, Maron, it was like...oh man, it was like I told him his mom died or something. It was a fucking riot."

Maron sipped on her wine for the dozenth time, although it seemed like the contents weren't diminishing at all, settling instead for her ice water. Her gaze drifted over the crowded upscale restaurant, her food untouched. Yamcha was glad he thought ahead and spiked her water, too.

"Still feeling ill?" Yamcha asked with false concern.

Maron turned her pretty head toward him and gave him a weak smile. "Maybe a little."

"You seem restless tonight." His hand rested on her thigh, stroking it softly where the slit parted. "Or just hungry for something else?"

His fingernails brushed the inside of her thigh and over the crotch of her thin panties, feeling the ridges of her pussy lips clearly. Maron tensed under his ministrations.  
"Like that?" He asked her thickly. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, a bead of sweat like a beauty mark against her temple. "Does that excite you?" He whispered into her ear. She turned her head away from him in resistance, but by now, he knew that was just her game. She wanted him. Every woman did. It was just foreplay for her. It was the most enticing foreplay he had coerced yet.

"I want to take you home, and peel that dress slowly off your little body, and suck on those luscious white tits you've been keeping from me. And then," he said, putting his arm around her and stroking her collarbone with his fingertips, her expression still dazed as her head dipped lethargically forward, "I'm going to slide that little thong off those wide hips of yours and lick that clit until you're creamy wet. Three fingers won't be enough, I might have to put my whole fist in. Isn't it a good thing," he whispered in her ear, "that I'm so generous?"

Bulma fought her stomach at the prospect. She hadn't expected this. Nothing had gone right tonight. She had been so tired and queasy this week, so distracted with missing Vegeta. She hadn't been prepared for this mission. She'd fucked up.

Since being seated at the little round table in the corner, since Yamcha had scooted his chair uncomfortably close to her and persisted she try the seven hundred zenni wine he'd ordered that was becoming painfully clear was drugged, her whole world had been reduced to the sensation of being held underwater.

Yamcha had decided enough was enough and it was high time that he got what he wanted. She had pinned him as simply an overconfident playboy, but she'd miscalculated. As his fingers curled around the crotch of her panties, the fabric sliding easily out of the way so that he could stroke her over the clink and conversation of the restaurant, she felt acid jump in her throat. She swallowed. Everything was spiraling out of her control. She had to get back into control somehow. She wanted to rip the pervert's head off his shoulders and sit it in the chair next to her like a trophy as she finished her meal. But the drug had made soup of her brain.

"Don't you want me in you, Maron? I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to bend you over from behind on this table..."

This was nothing like when Vegeta talked dirty to her. Vegeta was pure, loving, honest. When he told her he was going to bend her over and finger her until she was begging to come on his dick, she'd be unbuttoning his shirt, her thighs wet, whispering, "Well, what are you waiting for?" before he could finish.

Yamcha just made her feel very, very dirty.

"So what do you say?" Yamcha purred, shoving a finger into her. Bulma gasped and jerked, and because Yamcha didn't really care, he took that as an invitation to start pumping his hand back and forth. Bulma paled. She couldn't move her limbs. She stared at the cutlery intensely. She wanted to grab the steak knife and slit the bastards throat at the dinner table. Yamcha, intoxicated by finger fucking her in such a public place, began running his fingernails over her breast with the arm crooked around her neck tightly.  
"You better take the offer, bitch, or I'm going to blow your fucking brains out right here in front of West City," he snarled in her ear.

Bulma's eyes rolled upward as she fought down vomit. She buried her head in his shoulder to keep from throwing up, which Yamcha mistook as consent. He slammed his palm into her one more time, fondling her breast, and snapped at a waiter to bring him the check, leaving his hand in her panties nonchalantly. She jerked as he pinched her nipple so hard it made her dizzy, and her head bobbed up as if on a string in surprise.

Where she met Vegeta's best friend Nappa's glare.

A few tables in front of them sat Nappa and a few other lawyer buddies she didn't know, laughing conspiratorially among themselves. All except Nappa. Nappa didn't drop her gaze as Yamcha's fingers moved back and forth inside her. She forced herself to reach down and grab his hand, pulling it out of her with a wet pop.

"Let go," she pleaded with a thick tongue.

Yamcha grinned in triumph and kissed her.

Bulma screwed her eyes shut as his tongue breached her mouth for the first time. He kissed her lewdly, roughly, not seeming to notice or care that she was unresponsive.  
Pulling back, he grinned down at her. "I love it when you try and resist me." He rose and grabbed her jacket, pulling her seat out for her and helping her into her coat in a mockery of affection. As he led her toward the door, his arm around her waist, all over her ass, and as he handed the server several hundred crisp zennis, Bulma glanced back at Nappa, mouthing the word "help."

But Nappa was standing up and moving toward the men's room as he dialed his phone, scowling.

* * *

 

By the time they had reached his 'small' mansion—only five stories, twenty four rooms, and seventeen bathrooms—Bulma's numbness and shame had hardened into a purposeful hatred, burning through some of the fog in her mind.

Yamcha opened the door of the limo and she stepped out into the cool night air. It smelled strongly of approaching rain and the first blossoms of spring. As the car door slammed shut behind her, Yamcha seemed to be thinking the same thing. Cherry blossoms littered the walk to the house in front of them, and he plucked one off the ground, threading it in her hair.

"A beautiful, worthless flower for a beautiful, worthless lady."

Yamcha, on cloud nine, didn't catch Bulma's sneer. A seductive fantasy began playing over and over in her head with single-minded intensity, and it started with finding his kitchen and ended with a knife in his skull. She forced her feet to shuffle forward, and looked back over her shoulder with barely disguised malevolence.

"Coming?" She managed. The nearest weapons would be inside the house.

Yamcha hardened with excitement.

"I don't come so easily," he countered as he pushed her up against the front door roughly and grabbed two handfuls of her breasts with his nails. She let out a squeak of pain.  
She felt around and found the doorknob and worked to turn it, dumping them into the foyer. Yamcha laughed and made to pin her down.

"That's not how you treat a lady," Bulma slurred, the blossom falling out of her hair and flattening under her heel as she sought to stand.

"How 'bout a glass of wine, and then I'll show you how I treat a lady. Follow me," he commanded, slamming the front door closed and winking as he turned down the hall.

She tried to focus. The kitchen was where the cutlery was.

First door on the right, bathroom. Second door on the left, guest room. Third room, game room. Fourth room—

her heart stuttered—

In the fourth room hung an enormous Red Ribbon flag above heaps of Capsule Corp and Ouji Corp memorabilia, and a row of dresses hanging from a freestanding closet.

She knew she should find the kitchen before Yamcha outmaneuvered her but was planted. There was something about the room that held a sinister answer.  
This isn't all for nothing, she chanted in her head, trying to alleviate the panic that was beginning to pierce through the fog of her mind. The answer is here.

"Here."

Bulma jumped as Yamcha appeared beside her. He held out a glass of wine, the bottle and his own empty glass laced between his fingers.

"What is this?" She nodded sluggishly at the room.

If at all possible, Yamcha's grin became more devious. "Stuff. You want to see?"

She nodded.

"Nuh-uh. Not until you give me a kiss," he demanded coyly.

She shook her head, but his mouth bit onto hers roughly anyway, plunging his tongue in and pressing it against hers slimily. She tried clamping her lips together, a whine hitching in her throat.

"Not that kind of kiss," he crooned, and he grabbed her hand and placed it on his erection. "This kind."

"Get bent," she snarled before she could think twice.

Suddenly Yamcha's fist impacted with her jaw and he hauled her into the room, throwing her painfully over the armrest of a chaise, sending a bolt of pain through her back. He pulled her dress down to her waist savagely, freeing her breasts. He yanked her head back by her hair and poured wine directly from the bottle into her mouth, forcing her to choke or swallow.

"Oh, don't stop fighting, now," he encouraged her cheerfully. "I won't have any use for you if you don't fight me."

After so much of it had made it down her throat, he let her go, and she sat up, coughing. She heard glass shatter and felt something sharp enter her hip, pain blossoming with exquisite force.

"Put that pretty mouth on my dick or you're dead." He fumbled with his pants as he kneeled over her. Her arms moved leadenly to fend off his advances, but he smashed a wine glass over her temple to subdue her. Dazed, she struggled to see through a growing black mist.

"Not so pretty anymore, are you," he laughed. "No, you're the kind of woman that retains her beauty well into her old age." Shards of the wine bottle jut out from her hip.  
"I want to ruin you," he snarled as he flipped her over and forced her belly against the armrest, her head and arms dangling above the floor. She struggled to stay conscious. Even panic would be a welcome sensation right now.

"Maron," he cooed, hiking her dress up around her hips and pulling down her panties. "You should have sucked me off when you had the chance. Now look what you've done."

Just as she puzzled out his meaning, she felt one of his hands spread her ass cheeks, the other planting his dick against her.

_Oh no. Oh, no, no nonononono_

"Has your cherry been popped back here yet? You seem like a real frigid bitch so I'm guessing no. But you're lucky, for two reasons. Well, three. First and foremost, you're going to get fucked by Yamcha fucking Matsumoto. Two, I may or may not use lube. And threeee," he giggled in the whorl of her ear, "I'm not going to use lube. Your blood should make it easier on you when you grow painfully tight with fear."

Bulma's eyes bulged as he forced himself gradually into her rear, and she keened in pain, her head wrenching back on her shoulders, a prayer unheard.

And through the sweat, blood, smeared makeup, wine, and fog obscuring her vision, one object still held her attention.

...Her father's gold watch on the table, with the familiar Capsule Corporation design engraved into it.

She remembered begging him to let her play with it when he got home from work, rubbing it in her small hands until it grew warm, smudging the glass and fogging it up with her breath to write her name in it before wiping it off with the hem of her shirt. She would giggle uncontrollably as her father pulled the stop out of the watch, twisting the hands backwards and exclaim, "Honey, come here! Somebody, anybody! Call the president, call Channel 4 News! Bulma's figured out how to turn back time!"

She fixated on her father's watch. She swore she could hear it tick, tick, tick, tick, a sound she had fallen asleep to many times. Her eyes slowly wandered up where she saw similar items along the wall.

And the one thing the coroner and police couldn't find on her father after his death.

Her mother's necklace, which her father had put in his pocket to be repaired before never coming home again.

This was Yamcha's trophy room.

These were trophies taken from his victims.

Yamcha...

Yamcha had killed her father.

Yamcha's hand smashed her face back down into the wooden armrest, a bruise instantly blossoming on the side of her face. "Stay down," he ordered. Cold fear settled in her belly as he rubbed something jagged against her labia. "Or else I might just fuck you with this bottle. So be a good girl."

She swore she could hear her father's watch, ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She felt Yamcha's hand begin to squeeze her throat until spots flitted in her vision as he began to buck behind her.

Tick.

A switch flicked on inside her.

With uncanny speed, Bulma whipped around and clobbered Yamcha in the face, her knuckles sinking into cheekbone. His dick slipped out of her with a sickening pressure and he fell onto the floor on his back with a release of air, tangled up in his pants.

With every gulping breath, Bulma felt stronger. Stronger than she had been moments ago, stronger than she had ever been. Standing over him, she slammed her fist with brutal force into Yamcha's temple, flattening part of his skull and knocking him nearly out of this world.

He gazed up at her in confusion.

He saw an angel. Luminescent white skin and expansive blue wings, a slender diadem perched upon blue curls.

"You are a disgrace to your race," she spoke, "to your parents, to your creator." She kicked him in the stomach, unfurling unbelievable pain in his abdomen. She grabbed his lapels and shook him forcefully.

"And you killed my father!" She screamed in his face. She screeched as she plunged the glass he had threatened to rip her open with into his face, still covered in gore from her hip. Yamcha wailed and held his hands protectively over his face in vain.

"You-you're the Briefs g-girl," he stuttered, just as she pulled him up by his collar to sink her fist clean through his mangled face.

Instead, her fist wavered next to his head. Yamcha chuckled, gurgling through blood, and rolled his eyes. "Now I get it. You're trying to get revenge. How rich. Ha ha! Wait until Red finds out."

"I'm not trying to take revenge. I am revenge. I'm the Blue Menace, motherfucker." Her fist slammed into his jaw, shattering it.

"O sit," Yamcha gurgled through broken teeth and a half severed tongue. "Yer boo mens-"

"And don't you forget it," she barked, before standing and kicking his head hard enough that it ripped halfway off his shoulders.

Bulma stumbled over to the table and fell on top it, barely catching herself with her hands, before they betrayed her, slickened with blood and bone, and she fell to the floor in a heap. Reaching out painfully, her hands closed around her father's pocket watch, painting it in the vibrant blood of his murderer.

Breathing hard, Bulma pulled herself up on wobbly legs and searched the tables for any other clues, bloody hands slipping over the dead's mementos and some stray teeth scattered in his bureau drawers, but found nothing that further explained his role except an old Ouji Corp cigarette case that she pocketed for Vegeta, along with her mother's necklace. She bent and tugged Yamcha's phone from the pants pocket at his knees.

Bulma stumbled out of the room and then, in frustration, ripped her heels off, throwing them, enraged, through the window. The glass shattered in a twinkling spray, setting off the house alarm.

She lurched her way down the main hall, only looking forward, her eyelids heavy with gore and fatigue. She opened the front door with a creak, it's outward swing nearly toppling her over, and looked to the violet night sky.

With a groan, she stretched her wings and shot off into the sky.

* * *

 

"KAMI!"

A bellow quavered from the gardens.

Kami and Popo shot up out of bed, and then glanced at the other.

"Did you hear that?" Popo trembled.

"Kami!" Came the scream again.

"Yes," Kami said seriously, his heart filling with dread. They both rushed to throw a robe on and hurried outside, where, under the moonlight and on the edge of the dais, stood a broken, disheveled Bulma, powerful cerulean wings drooping tiredly on the stones.

"Bulma!" Popo cried, just as Kami gasped, "It's started."

As they scurried over to her, they recoiled in horror at her condition. Not only was she coated in blood—only some of it her own—a once elegant gold dress hung loosely off her breasts, the natural slit ripped to her waist. Blood blossomed at her hip, dripping down her thighs. She was shoeless, breathing in ragged breaths.

"What happened to you, child?!"

"Give me a senzu bean," she growled low like an animal.

"Of course. But what happened?"

"I need a fucking senzu, NOW!"

"Popo! Now!" Kami barked at his lover, who whipped around and hurried off in search of Korin's healing beans.

She didn't seem all the way conscious. Kami used what magic he could to probe her aura, knowing full well his magic would be neutralized by the magic infused inside her, and he'd learn nothing.

Until he felt it.

A pulse, like the beat of butterfly wings, struggling against the beat of a war drum.

"You're pregnant," Kami gasped, jaw dropping.

"I need a senzu if I'm going to stay that way," she snapped hoarsely.

"You...you've been assaulted..."

Bulma began trembling with barely contained emotion.

"But the child is much older than that. You didn't tell me you had found somebody..."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd be partial to the father."

"I don't understand—"

"Here they are, Kami!" Popo called, shuffling and panting back to his side, handing over a small drawstring bag. Kami dug into the bag, and then shook it frantically above his hand.

One small bean fell forlornly into Kami's hand.

"It must be the last bean of the season, Bulma, I didn't expect the war to begin so soon..."

"Give it to me," she demanded, snatching the bean from his hand, breaking it in half, and swallowing one half of it whole.

She sucked in her breath harshly as the wings withdrew back into her with bone cracking complaint, disappearing.

She fell back onto her butt and her head drooped above her lap, her legs in a sprawl. "Kami?" Her small voice called out plaintively.

He rushed to her side and kneeled down. "It's a reflex, child. Whenever you're near death or in great danger, you can access the violent nature of the Archangel. That would explain the wings and the temper. It's a defense mechanism, and you should be grateful you have it. Now, child, what in the seven hells happened to you?"

"Yamcha Matsumoto killed my father," she snarled thickly.

Popo gasped, and Kami's gaping face hovered in front of her. "Are you sure?"

"He had his watch, Kami," her eyes filling with tears, her throat tightening. "He...did...something...I spied my fathers watch...I hit him...and that's when he recognized me and laughed, so I kicked his smug face inside out."

"It's part of the Archangel defense. Don't feel guilty. It makes you more powerful, but more ruthless. We who gifted it to you understand desperate times call for desperate measures, that's just the nature of justice—"

"Oh, Kami, what am I going to do?" She interrupted, slowly dissolving into tears. "He probably knows by now, what will he think?"

"What? Who? The man you're seeing?"

Bulma nodded weakly.

"Do you love him?"

She nodded passionately.

"Well, then, I'm sure he loves you, and he will forgive you," he said dismissively. His voice hardened. "He doesn't know about your mission, does he?"

Bulma stood on renewed legs and looked over the edge of the dais out at the black and gold abyss below. "War's begun," she chanted softly. "All I can do is go home and pray, and hope he'll answer my phone call."

Popo and Kami shared anxious glances, their bathrobes billowing in the humid spring wind.

Bulma's right foot left the dais and Kami hollered, "Wait, Bulma, you're still too weak! Take the cumulus—"

But Bulma had already jumped off.

* * *

 

She pushed the back door open weakly and stumbled into the apartment, slapping the pilfered cigarette case, half a senzu, and Yamcha's phone on her kitchen counters. She had left her purse at home, not wanting to risk her identity.

She searched in the dark on the counters for her phone so that she could call Vegeta. A half a senzu wasn't enough to heal her wrecked body. Her privates still ached, and the side of her face throbbed, and she was totally zapped of energy. She had barely landed the drop from Kami's on her feet. A jump she usually found thrilling, was this time taxing. She had to speak to Vegeta, and then take a hot shower and sleep off her exhaustion before planning her next move. She had executed a close friend of Red Ribbon's Boss, and despite her thorough, labyrinthine paper trail, he'd learn there was no Maron Susoro sooner or later. She might even need to pack up their stuff and move them somewhere safe for now—

"Look what the cat dragged in," a voice grated from the darkness. Bulma froze, and then turned toward Vegeta.

"You're home," she moaned with relief.

"What did you expect after I got a call from my best friend that said he was in pissing distance from Yamcha Matsumoto fucking you in a high class restaurant?"

"I can explain!" She cried out desperately.

"What the fuck is there to explain!" He roared, slamming his fist on the kitchen table, her phone, the screen lit up with her texts to Yamcha, falling from his lap. The room flickered for a moment in Hell's indigo monochrome, and Bulma flinched. She felt tears spring to her eyes and embarrassingly, without any control, she started sobbing, the events of the night choking her.

"I've already drawn up the paperwork for a civil separation and packed my things, so you don't have to worry about the details," he informed her coolly.

A gut wrenching sob escaped her.

He was out of his seat in a heartbeat, standing over her.

"Now give me my ring."

Bulma shook her head stubbornly, drunkenly.

"Give me my ring!" He shouted.

"No," she hiccuped.

Vegeta sneered and took a step back from her. "You'll get a subpoena for it then. You smell like a frat party. And where the fuck is your underwear?" He pointed accusingly at her dress, just now noticing her torn skirt, yawning open and revealing her hip. For a moment, he paused, glancing over her swollen, purpled face, and for one small second, she thought she saw concern flicker over his features. But just as swiftly, it transformed into loathing.

"You disgust me. Do you like it rough with that rich prick? Did he pay you to let him fuck you, or do you still cling to a shred of decency and Kami's benevolence and let that Red Ribbon fuck put it in you for free?" He shook his head and turned toward the front room, but paused in the doorway, turning his head back to her slightly. "You know, I sacrificed everything for you, even my contract with Piccolo. This fucking lawsuit you evidently couldn't sit pretty for was to pay for a down payment on a fucking house. I have absolutely wasted the last two years of my life." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" She cried out brokenly.

Vegeta paused and looked back at her, and he was a man that was already a million miles away.

"I'm pregnant," she confessed, the agony of the night tumbling out with the words.

Vegeta just regarded her apathetically, his face screwed up with repulsion. "Choke on that knowledge, you Judas. I don't want to see your treasonous face again."

He tramped out of the room, throwing the apartment key on the floor and slamming the door shut, picture frames falling to the floor with a clutter. After a moment, she heard his BMW roar to life and streak down the street, eventually fading from hearing.

With a wail, Bulma began throwing a supersized tantrum.

She destroyed everything she could get her hands on. She threw her cast iron skillet as hard as she could at the fridge, overturned the table, chucked glasses at the walls, screeching, until she sank, out of breath, to the floor.

She ripped off her dress with sudden mania and stomped to the bathroom. Turning the shower on to its hottest setting, she stepped in without waiting, her skin pimpling and then flushing as the water went from frigid to scalding hot.

She thought animatedly about ending her life. Her contract with Kami was null and void now that she had gotten pregnant, to a denizen of Hell who couldn't regard her with more hatred. There was no point in living in this violated body, no point carrying and raising a child with only a load of shame to give it, ostracized from the few people who'd ever loved her. She didn't know that she'd be welcome into Heaven now anyway, so what better way to Fall confidently?

As she resolved then to simply kill herself, she felt a disagreeing tug between her shoulders, accompanied by a body wracking tremble and a sharp bolt of pain down her back. With an intense sucking shiver, wings once again sprang from her back forcefully, knocking over shampoo bottles which fell onto her toes, and jutting out the shower curtain.  
A cold, determined fire settled over her like a second skin, replacing any earlier doubt.

Bulma jumped out of the shower lithely, turning around at the last moment to turn off the shower, and walked, dripping, to her room, her feet slapping wetly against hardwood. Vegeta wasn't bluffing; his things were absent from their room.

She reached under her bed and pulled out the chest which housed her gear. She picked up the whole thing with new strength and tossed it on the bed. Flicking the locks open, she reached in, seizing her katana, her nunchucks, her knives and her power pole and placing them with care on the bed next to the black chest. She held up her blue jumpsuit, surveying it before walking to the kitchen to grab a pair of shears.

Once she was satisfied with the practical fit of the now backless suit to accommodate her wings, she fell into the familiar ritual.

Pull on fitted boots. Tug on and snap gloves into position. Attach thigh holsters and sheath throwing knives. Shrug on multi-function back strap, into which she fitted her power pole, Kami's first gift to her; her katana, it's damascus steel glinting encouragingly; and lastly, her nunchuks, won in a card game with Korin. She pulled her hair up into a severe bun, tight enough to force an ache out of her bruised face and, finally, attached her capsule case and capsulized the remaining senzu, her father's pocket watch, and her mother's necklace. If she didn't make it, and she was quite certain she wouldn't, at least she'd die with the treasures of the only people who had ever cared for her.  
She strode through the apartment, swiping Yamcha's phone off the counter, and readily stepped outside, leaving her old life behind without a backwards glance.

She popped a capsule and threw it into the parking lot without bothering to use her light reflecting technology to disguise it as she scrolled through Yamcha's contact list. Lots of women's names, including Maron's...and one singular adjective, a synonym for the florid color of spilled blood.

"Hello," a male voice answered brusquely.

"Hey there motherfucker. This is Blue Menace, and I'm on my way to kill you." Bulma turned her bike ignition and revved the engine vigorously. "Let's dance."


	4. Chapter 4

Pt. IV

  
VIII. "Down And Out"

Vegeta swatted at the cell phone ringing next to his pillow and it fell to the floor with a thump.

Huffing, he readjusted his back against the pillows propped against the headboard. The ghostly colors of late night tv lit the dark bedroom animatedly as Vegeta sprawled on his back in Nappa's guest room. He stretched one arm behind his head and rested the other on his ridged, bare stomach, clad in nothing but black boxer briefs and trying like hell to unwind.

After a minute, his phone began ringing for the dozenth time from the floor beside the bed, and with a growl, Vegeta bent over and snatched it, mashing the talk button.

"What?!" He barked.

"You finally decided to answer the phone," a deep voice drawled. "It's about damned time."

Vegeta sighed grimly. "Since when did you start calling me from a pay phone."

"Since I left Hell. Shit's about to go down, Ouji, where the fuck are you? Why didn't you pick up the phone?" The voice questioned him with dark comedy.

"You usually come up as 'unknown number,'" Vegeta said defensively.

"Reception is shit down there, you know."

"Yeah, well, there's someone I'm trying to avoid right now, and I don't feel much like chatting. Now, where the fuck are you?"

"At some hole in the wall bar on 5th Street. Real classy place here. I've spotted two escorts, one guy whose going to kill a woman in a drunk driving incident on his way to a hookup, and three obscenely corrupted politicians. One of them has gone to the men's bathroom with another man and hasn't come back in awhile."

"Nice."

"Do you think I should just escort them to Hell now or wait to shake their hands at Yemma's years from now?"

"Seeing as how you get double points for every evil committed succeeding the first, that can't be a real question."

The voice on the other end chuckled. "You know, it warms my heart to see people committing sin in the name of self indulgence."

Vegeta glanced toward the wall with silent resentment. "I hear you."

"So, anyway, like I said, where the fuck are you? Why are you not at Capsule Corp right now?"

Vegeta frowned. "Why would I be?"

"Cuz Blue Menace is standing outside the front steps, right now."

Vegeta sat up swiftly. "What?"

"We all got the word that the War has started earlier tonight. I'm just wondering how you missed the memo."

"Yeah, well, I've been a little distracted tonight. You need to tell me exactly what's going on," Vegeta dictated slowly.

"I heard from someone who heard from Kami that the Blue Menace's Archangel mode has been activated. Sure enough, not a moment later, I get a call from the Big Guy telling me it's the real deal. She didn't just fall on the ice and bump her head. She went head to head with some Red Ribbon schmuck tonight who put her in Archangel and now Red Ribbon is gearing up for battle. Kami's waiting at the check in station with Yemma right now waiting for the goon to come through so he can get the low down. So, I came up to settle in and watch the fireworks from afar, and I shit you not, only a few moments later, I hear an engine roar through and stop. I go outside for a smoke to check it out, it's Blue Menace. No mask, full Archangel mode. Decked out to the nines with weapons. She's standing out there right now staring up at the building, like a waif, I don't know. Thought I'd give you a call and ask you why you ain't with her." Vegeta heard him blow smoke through the receiver.

"Why would I be?" Vegeta replied defensively.

"Don't give me that shit, Ouji. These people in the bar aren't the only ones who've been putting themselves before others. Bulma fucking Briefs is standing outside Capsule Corporation right now after some serious shit went down, and you don't know about it? Coming from the guy who's been secretly trying to get out of his contract for her, I find that curious."

Vegeta ran his hand over his face and sat back against the head board. "Okay. So you know. We're not together anymore. She's no longer a hindrance to my contract."

"Whether she is or she isn't, I'm still taking you back down with me after this is all said and done. You get what you want, I get what I want. Now go take back my fucking rice cooker. And hurry. Bulma's flying up the steps right now."

The line went dead and Vegeta stared at it in confusion.

He stood up and looked around. Most of his shit was piled in Nappa's garage right now, including his gear.

Vegeta ran his hands over his face and sat down on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the carpet. What was going on? Just what in the hell did Bulma think she was doing? They were in no position to attack right now, at least, not confidentially. The Bulma he knew wouldn't have tramped in there recklessly, not without finishing her research, not without informing him. But he really didn't know her, did he? His stomach tightened with bitterness. Given that she'd been fooling around with that celebrity Red Ribbon fuck, she was probably just there for a conjugal visit.

He just couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry. She couldn't do it alone. It wasn't just the Boss they were challenging, it was his army of 88's and any other thugs he hired to show up. He felt a sharp pang of concern at the thought of her trying to go up against 88 soldiers at once, alone. He massaged his temples and sighed.

Piccolo mentioned some shit went down. He stiffened when he remembered how beat up Bulma looked, how drained.

He had been seeing red at the time. Everything she did, every time she sniveled, every time he glimpsed her torn skirt, he had grown more and more murderous.

He hadn't fully believed Nappa when he'd gotten the call while he was chest deep in paperwork at the courthouse. He knew Nappa wouldn't lie to him, not about something like this, and the big guy's delicacy and underlying disgust while telling him what he saw indicated the truth. But not his Bulma, not his little blue haired dork. He trusted her one hundred percent. He remembered the way she had had dazzled him with her smile the night he proposed to her, the lantern light highlighting her mass of curls, the sheer adoration seeping from her bright eyes. That Bulma was his and his alone.

But when he got back to her place, finding her absent (out with that fuck), finding her phone and wallet on the counter, slowly reaching for it, trying to control his anxiety, trying to tell himself it was all a misunderstanding and he didn't need to check her phone, then he had found Yamcha's name, first on the list...

_...Let me take you out to Gojo's Steakhouse tonight...You looked so beautiful last night...Wear the dress I first met you in..._

And he had dropped the phone on the kitchen table in overwhelming horror. Not his Bulma; but when his Bulma had came in the back door, walking tenderly, her dress askew...when she had confessed she was pregnant with that bozo's child...she had proven him wrong about his trust in her after all.

He had thought, despite losing his family and legacy, despite never being interested in a woman besides her legs spread, despite never being able to confide in anyone about his other life, Fate had taken over the night he blundered in to some coffee shop in some cringingly small college town. He had...stupidly...grown convinced it was Fate that had slid that ring onto her finger.

But now it was very clear that Fate didn't give a shit about Vegeta Ouji, reminding Vegeta exactly why he had sold his soul to Piccolo in the first place.

Vegeta stood up and grabbed his white t shirt off the dresser, tugging it over his wide chest before walking into the dark bathroom and pulling his underwear down over the V of his lower abdomen to take a piss.

He inched open his bedroom door and made his way quietly downstairs. The house was dark and silent. He slipped into the kitchen and through the door next to the pantry that led into the garage, where his stuff was stacked against the far wall. He made his way to it gravely. After moving the stuff on top of the chest, he flipped the locks on the chest and opened it.

His gear glinted up at him familiarly.

With quiet precision, Vegeta grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled it up over his hard body, tossing it to the floor before pulling on his suit. As he strung both Aldebaran and Betelgeuse in the cross straps at his back, the scimitar banging his thigh in its sheath, remembering how Bulma had jokingly named it his 'Sword of Damocles,' when he heard a noise from the doorway and looked up.

Nappa stood staring, his football players form filling the doorway.

Deciding that it didn't matter anymore whether he knew or not, Vegeta tugged his mask over his face and tightened it, waiting for Nappa to talk.

"Going somewhere?" His oldest buddy asked with unusual solemnity.

Vegeta closed the chest with care, and then turned to Nappa.

"To take vengeance," Black Vengeance declared.

Nappa nodded slowly. "I don't know if I'll be able to post your bail or argue you out of a life sentence if you get caught, as good as I am," he wisecracked.

"After tonight, it won't matter," Vegeta said, slipping his gloves on systematically.

The full might of Black Vengeance strode up to him. Even though Nappa knew that, under the black leather and spandex, the figure was the first and best friend he had had since Law School, Nappa stiffened facing the stuff of the city's most feared and most militant crime organization's nightmares.

Nappa held out his hand, and Vegeta shook it seriously.

"Stay safe. Your stuff will be here when you get back."

Vegeta nodded slightly, knowing full well that he'd not be coming back.

* * *

 

"What's taking so long?" Kami tapped his foot impatiently, his arms crossed in his robes.

Yemma once again looked over the crowd waiting to get their permission into Heaven or sentence to Hell. "I don't know, Kami, he should have arrived by now."

A flash of light blinded the men momentarily, and King Kai appeared out of the glare, antenna twitching as he readjusted his sunglasses.

"I would have much rather just driven my Bel Air," he groused. "Hello, boys. I have some unfortunate news. Kami, you're not gonna like this, but Yamcha won't be showing up."

"Huh?" Both Kami and Yemma blinked in surprise.

"Yamcha isn't deceased. He never died."

"But Bulma said she killed him!" Kami began growing alarmed. "And in a very...graphic...way."

"Yamcha isn't dead because...well, because he's not fully human. Red Ribbon had Gero outfit him with android technology. Yamcha has been...resurrected."

Kami thought it over dejectedly. "Well then, it seems there's just nothing I can do for her, if I can't question him about Red Ribbon."

"Not to mention what happened between him and Bulma," Yemma muttered darkly as he stamped the paperwork of some twitching middle aged man smiling at them nervously.

"He's not fully android," the Kai explained. "He's had some parts replaced, but he still has his soul. Once she manages to kill him, he'll be standing in line in purgatory like the rest of these folks," he promised them ominously.  
"Will you be going back to the Lookout to watch over her?" Yemma asked Kami with concern, handing the paperwork back over to the man, who let out a squeal once he saw where he was headed.  
Kami scowled at the ground. "That's about all I can do. I haven't checked in on her since she left the Lookout," he admitted anxiously.

"That's not entirely true, Kami," King Kai reasoned. "You can send her word of what we've learned."

"What good would that be?" Yemma asked him.

"Because that, my good man, is the advantage she's been looking for all this time."

Kami seemed shaken. "That's it," he whispered. "That's it! But...but how will I tell her? I can't reach her. The Archangel turns her mind off to me!"

"My telepathy won't work unless I've met the person before, so I can't reach her, either," King Kai informed him sadly. "But I know someone who wouldn't mind visiting Earth again," the Kai mused, readjusting his sunglasses.

* * *

 

She twisted the engagement ring back and forth on her finger.

She was really doing this without Vegeta. She always thought they'd be doing this together. The diamond caught the streetlight and sparkled. Everything she had ever wanted was symbolized in that ring. And everything that had been taken away from her. She never wanted to take it off. She never wanted to believe that things had changed, that she couldn't turn around and go back home and snuggle into bed and fall asleep against his warm back. But things had turned on a dime, and here she was, at the threshold of Capsule Corp, a place she hadn't stood since a child...alone.

She glanced down once more before twisting it off her finger, coming off for the first time since Vegeta had slid it on, and capsulized it. It may not stand for anything anymore, but she couldn't' bear it if it got damaged in the fight.

Bulma flapped her wings once with enough force to propel herself off the ground and flew low up the steps to the front doors of Capsule Corp.

Steeling herself, she placed her hand on the door handle when she heard a whooshing. She glimpsed something approaching her from above, a shadow against the thick violet sky. As it neared, she could make out the figure of a man crouching down on an object speeding towards her. As it neared, the man stood, an imposing figure against the darkness, and it slowed to a stop on the lawn to hover over the ground.

He hopped off and approached her, palms spread out in entreaty. "I've got a message from Kami!"

As he approached Bulma could see he was clothed in an orange gi like the ancient martial artists, the Northern Kai's symbol scripted in black and white on his chest. His inky black hair framed his face in thick spikes with no rhyme or reason, and he was tall and powerfully built. Although she was reminded of Vegeta's own defiant hair, this man was paler than Vegeta, and exhibited none of the reserve Vegeta did. In fact, though his brows were furrowed with gravity, he was giving her a light hearted, good natured smile, and she lowered her blade.

"I have a message from Kami, who had King Kai send me. He wants you to know some guy named 'Yamaha' isn't dead. He's alive, and he's kind of an android."

Bulma crossed her arms, loosely resting her blade against her shoulder like it were a parasol, and frowned in confusion.

"'Yamaha?' You mean Yamcha?" She paled, but her face scrunched up with disgust. "An android? Is that even possible?"

Goku looked at her helplessly.

"But when I...hurt him...his body looked quite human," she pondered.

The man nodded sympathetically. "Well, he's been rebuilt. I don't know if he's here, but King Kai seemed certain that the knowledge would be very important to you."

She stared off in befuddlement. "I'm not worried about Yamcha," she ruminated out loud, before shuddering. "Android or not, he won't put a finger on me anymore."

She looked back at the man's determined, open face, which she thought was decidedly handsome. "Why is the Northern Kai interested in our affairs?"

The man scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. "Kami-sama didn't tell me why you needed to know that. It just seemed really important that you know. But Kami and King Kai are good friends."

"Well, if they're trying to spare my feelings, they can stop," she muttered. "Is that a cumulus?" She interrupted, pointing to the fluffy thing writhing over the lawn.

"It's a nimbus, actually!" He responded with excitement.

"I have a flying cumulus cloud that I was gifted from Korin, one of my martial arts masters," she informed him, perking up.

"Oh, yeah? I know Korin! He trained me for a few days after I climbed his Tower. I earned mine from my first Master, the Turtle Hermit," he explained humbly. "I took him with me to King Kai's planet once I was invited to train there. It's kind far away, so it sure is helpful to have something that can get you somewhere quickly," he explained, scratching his head, his arms bulging in the process. She glanced away demurely.

Handsome as he might be, his ripped build and chiseled face mostly just reminded her of Vegeta.

"Not many people can say they've climbed Korin's Tower." She sighed and looked toward the building. "I don't think I've been trained enough to prepare for a fight of this magnitude," she glanced at the man with apprehension, her eyes widening with self reproach.

"I'm sure if God and a Kai sent you here to do it, they believe you can get it done."

Bulma smiled weakly. "Thank you."

He held out his hand, and Bulma reached out her own and shook it, his large hand engulfing hers softly. "My name's Goku. Maybe I'll see you around and we can spar sometime. Next time, I'll Instant Transmission! Fight well!" He raised his fist in salute.

Bulma put her fist up in agreement and watched him hop the full thirty meters to his nimbus, crouch down, and take back off to disappear into the cloud cover.

How could Yamcha's resurrection be so important that Kami and King Kai would go through great lengths to tell her? Why would he go through all the trouble of getting some kook to replace parts of his body with android technology? Startled, Bulma remembered the night they took out Gero, a crazed old scientist whose office was cluttered with metal prosthesises.

There was some sort of link between Gero, Yamcha, Red Ribbon, and android technology.

"Well, time to kick some ass," she resolved, as she lifted her katana cautiously and opened the front door of Capsule Corp.

* * *

 

Inside it was dark, quiet and seemingly empty.

Purposefulness filled her at the sight of the familiar gold chandeliers, the oversized, crescent shaped secretary's desk, the dual staircases that curved up to the second floor cat walks, the antique elevator doors fitted between them, and the Red Ribbon flag that hung where the "CC" logo once proudly greeted visitors.

"Red Ribbon!" She screamed into the large atrium, her voice echoing shrilly. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

She stepped inside, one step at a time, sensitive ears trying to pick up any movement. She heard motorized humming, and the elevators doors drifted open.

A woman and a man stepped out. As she tried to decipher their threat level, the lights inside the building came on with a glare.

They were young, both dressed with youthful style and both leaning casually back on their heels.

The young woman was tall and lean, her white-blonde hair cut into a fashionable, straight bob. She stood back aloofly, her arms crossed over her small chest, her small booted foot stuck out and tapping impatiently. Her icy blue eyes stared unblinking at Bulma.

The other stood with his arms crossed over a black t shirt, an orange kerchief tied loosely around his neck and the knees in his jeans torn out, his bulky skate style shoes tapping with less impatience and more excitement. His cold blue eyes held more warmth than the girls; he smirked at her from across the room.

"My, my, look who we have here. We've been waiting years for you to show up. It's been quite boring waiting all this time," the girl drawled.

"She didn't bring company," the boy mentioned.

"I see that. Where's your man, Blue?"

"It will be just me tonight," Bulma called out firmly.

"Well, that's a real downer," the girl commented dryly, her voice lightly accented with the privileged lilt of a valley girl. "I had real hopes of seeing what he's made of. If you know what I mean," the blonde smiled at her cooly.

Bulma's eyes narrowed.

"Is he free, then? You two are...no more?"

"What does it matter to you? Who are you two, anyway?"

"What, you haven't already guessed?"

"And I thought she was supposed to be a genius or something," the boy mumbled with disappointment.

"Some genius."

Bulma's eyes narrowed even further.

"We're the Boss's bodyguards. Can't you tell? Aren't we intimidating?" They both snickered.

"You're Seventeen and Eighteen," Bulma put together with surprise.

"Well, she's not all hot air," the blonde remarked cuttingly.

"Yep, seems like she's got beauty and brains."

"Oh, good lord," Bulma muttered, suppressing the urge to facepalm. "I didn't come here to chit chat," she growled.

"Aw, I'm sorry. We've just been short on conversation these days," Seventeen explained. She wasn't sure if they were fucking with her or not. "Well, if you insist on getting busy, we'll let the 88's take over," he said disaffectedly.

"Good luck all by yourself," Eighteen said callously.

"But if you make it, let me know if you'd like to go out sometime."

Seventeen's snarky tone really grated on her nerves. "Fuck off."

"You don't have to act all tough around me. Yamcha told me how much you were partial to Red Ribbon men."

Bulma stared them down stonily, katana wrapped in her fists, while they simply smirked at her.

That's when Eighteen called down the heavens. _"88's!"_ She snapped.

From all around her, the resounding stamp of feet bounced off the large atrium, and that's when she saw them—dozens of them, dressed in red ninjutsu suits and hoods, pouring down the stairs and over the balconies with hive mind. She gripped her sword tighter and tried to take stock of her surroundings and strategize as her mind chattered with adrenaline.

They settled around her in a circle, and she twitched with anticipation.

"Have a fun time," Eighteen called out to her, now hidden behind eighty eight ninjutsu soldiers. "If you're still in one piece after this, we'll be waiting."

"For a date," Seventeen shot in.

"Yeah, from your ex," Eighteen humored her.

Bulma couldn't wait to violently remove that smile off her pretentious face.

One of the soldiers crowed their signal, and all at once, eighty eight soldiers were coming at her.

Bulma pulled her wings in tightly and readied for the assault.

* * *

 

To her surprise, she didn't do as poorly as she expected right off the bat. As soldiers swarmed her, a few dashing in to take her on a few at a time, she felt the sing song of the Archangel humming in her blood. She had done this a hundred times, she reassured herself; she had faced scarier foes in more challenging situations. She could do this, and the Archangel, with its cold practicality and desire to see everyone crushed, would back her up on it agreeably.

Adrenaline pumped through her, her senses fully alerted. The first soldier lay slain at her feet, and two more glided up the walls and jumped out at her. She sunk her katana into one's belly and whipped around just in time to cut the legs out from the other.

As the bodies piled up, they had to dance in small spirals in order to prevent tripping over them.

Bulma spun and ducked as three red suited bodies front flipped over her, slashing at the air where her head had been with their short ninjutsu swords. Bulma tucked and rolled, flinging a knife into the face of a solider who sought to take advantage of her position on the ground. Ripping it out of his face, she plunged it into the chest of another soldier.  
They were getting too close for comfort, now. The Archangel presence gave her a surplus of energy, quick reflexes, and more determination. But nothing could deter the fact that she hadn't eaten anything substantial for days, that the task of carrying a child was draining her way before her time, that she had been drugged, beaten, assaulted, and broken up with in the last twenty four hours and was, plainly, dispirited. The only things carrying her through besides the instincts of the Archangel were anger and hopelessness. She had nothing left to lose but her life.

Bulma swung upward as another soldier swung his sword down. The clashing swords jarred her, and the fighter slashed at her with a knife hidden in his opposite hand, cutting Bulma open beneath her collar bone. She plunged her sword into his belly with force, yanked the knife out of his hand as it loosened with the shock of his injury, and stuck it through the skull of another fighter sneaking up on her.

That's when she spotted the flail swinging above their heads, advancing ominously toward her.  
Bulma crouched and then bucked her wings, flying upward with as much force as she could muster before the crowd parted and the flail smashed into her face. She hovered above the crowd of fighters, her wings snapping back and forth as she assessed the situation. From up here, she was safe, but she couldn't touch them. All of her weapons were short range.

Except her Power Pole. A wild grin sprouted on her face. She whisked the red pole from her back and hollered. "Power Pole EXTEND!"

Then, with as much strength as she could summon, she swept the mass off their feet with a blunt whack to the back of the knees. Bulma laughed manically. "How about this for stirring the pot?" Taking advantage of them while they were struggling to get up, she sheathed her Power Pole and pulled out her nunchuks with lightning speed, and with a maniacs glee, dipped down and started going to town.

She had never felt so strong, so alive, so impervious. With the nunchuks in each hand, Bulma Briefs twirled in a slow waltz, the nunchuks whirling in a tango of smashing and bruising. In fact, she was laughing, laughing as more and more soldiers fell, gaining more and more speed as they did. How could she have worried all this time about facing Red Ribbon when they were making it such a piece of fucking cake? As a line of red ninjutsu soldiers sought to rush her, she charged forward with a shriek, intent on knocking them down one by one like bowling pins.

That's when she felt the blade rip her open, and her back arched with hot pain. Someone had opened up one of her wings, freezing her. She had no idea her wings would be so sensitive. Someone punched her in the back and she seized up in pain, while another fighter slugged her in the face. With silent determination, they surrounded her as she fell onto her knees, taking jabs at her back and kicking her in the abdomen. As she curled protectively into a ball, unable to do anything but endure the pain, she heard two shots pop off, then another, and the beating slowed to a stop.

With a growl, and despite the pain, she stood and bared her teeth at the soldiers around her, circling, and popped her wings open, the wind forcing some soldiers down. With a scream, she cut one down, and then with an anguished grunt, rose with her wings just above their heads and hopped, one by one, from shoulder to shoulder, slicing through jugulars with relish.

More shots popped off, and as she hovered just out of reach, she searched for the source with frenzied eyes.

There, on the nearest walkway, stood a thick and regal form in shining black, a supernatural antique pistol in each hand. At first, in the killing lust of the Archangel, she didn't recognize him; she simply understood, on a deep level, that he was no threat to her.

He didn't look at her as he shot one gun, then the other, each time enduring their sharp recoil effortlessly.

Vegeta.

She wanted to melt into a puddle with longing. She wanted to cry out and kneel at his feet. She wanted to believe he was here because he cared.

But she understood. This was just business.

Swallowing, she pulled her big girl panties on and dashed the tears that pooled in the corners of her eyes, gritting her teeth.

The truth was that she had really thought she'd never see him again. With a stifled sob, she tucked her wings in and dove back down, using her momentum to knock a group of fighters over, breaking their necks with her speed. She caught the wrist of another who attempted to plunge a small knife into her shoulders, and forced the dagger into his own neck before roundhouse kicking the face of another flanking her.

There were only a half dozen left now, and she grinned at them wolfishly. Daring them. Wanting them, with frenzied desire, to come at her.

"Well, boys, who thinks they're man enough to try me?"

Two sprinted forward, one from each side, and she ducked so that they plowed into one another, falling backwards onto their faces. With violent precision, she broke both their necks with her heels. Reaching back behind her, she sheathed her katana and reached once again for her Power Pole.

Two more rushed her, and she twisted the pole to grip it horizontally in both hands. Thwacking one in the chest and taking the legs out from the other, two more shots popped off, and two more goons fell.

Only two were left standing: the ninjutsu with the flail, the other fighter clutching, of all things, a cat o' nine whip. Sizing them up, she glanced at Vegeta, but he had lowered his guns to his sides, ceding the fight to her.

The one on the left, slowly, surely, moved his wrist in stiff, small circles, letting out more and more chain as the flail gained speed. The flail shot out at her and she jumped back, just as the whip lashed her back, laying open her back and her wings in nine different places. She dropped her Power Pole and tightened with the pain and almost saw the barbed flail once again hurling towards her too late. She fell back with control and rolled to the side, and it buried itself into the tile less than a foot away.

As she jumped up, the whip once again caught her, this time on the arm, wrapping around her wrist.

She smirked, and with a hard yank, yanked the whip right out of the goon's hands.

Twisting it around so that the handle fell into her palm as the tail uncurled from around her wrist, she gave a small chuckle.

"Wouldn't you know, I've been trained to fight with a whip?"

The goon took a small step back.

That was all the incentive she needed.

She swung the whip in front of her as if she were throwing a curve ball, and all nine tails wrapped in a crescendo around his neck. Just as she squatted to get the leverage to snap the goons neck, she saw, too late, the spiked head of the flail hurling towards her to sink into her belly.

She watched it with her mouth open, awaiting its excruciating impact. At the same that the flail's spikes tore through flesh, she heard gun shots. The goons masked face jerked and gore escaped out of the two wounds that nearly halved his head.

Both goons dropped like puppets with their strings cut, and Bulma looked up at Vegeta with wide eyes, who looked down on her, his expression indecipherable from the distance.

All around her were the mangled bodies of the 88's. She took a moment to breathe and then stepped carefully over the bodies until she stood in front of the elevator doors, considering her next move. Seventeen and Eighteen were nowhere to be seen.

She ran her hands over herself and stretched, checking for serious injuries. Blood was seeping down her front and back, but all of the lacerations were bearable. She didn't want to use her half senzu until she was knocking on death's door, and then, only if she hadn't served Red his due. There was no need to be revived beyond that point.

She glanced back to where Vegeta had been; the walkway was empty. A tremor of disappointment went through her, until she heard his footfalls from behind.

He stood carelessly just a few feet away, pulling a cigarette out of his case. The action was so familiar that she felt an anguished longing towards the movement. She looked away.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"Hmph." Vegeta took a slow drag.

A woman's laughter cut through the heavy silence.

"Catch me if you can!" Eighteen's voice echoed throughout the floor. "And I mean you, Ouji!" Followed by a string of giggles.

Vegeta sent her a glance, and she gave him a sympathetic, pained smile. "Seventeen and Eighteen. Red's bodyguards."

"Red?"

Bulma nodded. "The Boss. His name is Red. I called him and told him I was coming."

Vegeta stared at her impenetrably.

"Why on Earth would you do that?" His tone was scathing.

She stared at him with haunted eyes, an expression unfamiliar to him. "What else do I have to live for?"

Vegeta inhaled the last of his cigarette deeply, dropped it, and ground his boot into it.

"Ouji, come find me!"

He glanced at Bulma when he heard her let out a little growl.

"So this is the Archangel transformation Piccolo was talking about," he gestured at her wings. He was trying to stay cool, stay distant, but every time he said something, he found himself caring about the answer. He had to just get Piccolo's damn rice cooker and get the hell out of here.

Up close, she seemed luminescent, nothing but blues and whites, and he could see an elegant, silver diadem in her curls, like some sort of princess get up. He was shocked when he recognized the Sword of the Supreme Kai etched into the crown.

"It's a survival reflex." She looked the other way.

"Brava, Blue. Now, may I have this dance?" Seventeen chimed from nowhere, followed by a string of playful giggles and doors slamming distantly.

"They're in the ballroom," Bulma said, heading up the stairs two at a time, wings trailing behind her like the train to a gown. Vegeta followed after her, leaping up the steps.  
She sprinted down the hallway, cautiously checking each door hastily, and then soared to the end of the hall to a set of massive double doors.

It still shook him a little to see her sporting heavy weight-sized wings. It reminded him that she had powerful beings at her back...despite her ethics. He chuffed at the hypocrisy.

He had first entered the building as she escaped the crowd of fighters with flight and used the Power Pole, a weapon she had never used with him before. He recalled the folklore surrounding a magic pole and bristled. So, a woman like that could have a guaranteed spot in Heaven, probably someone there to fluff her pillow on demand, and here he was, practically doing double duty for Hell and Heaven, and all he was guaranteed was a hot slot in Hell. It burned him up that she was surrounded by people who cared about her, while he had nobody. He hated them all at that moment: Bulma, Kami, Piccolo. But deep down, he hated "Red" the most—for putting him into a position to sell his soul to Piccolo Daimao for revenge and for putting him into a position to meet that blue haired harlot. Resentment and hatred flowed through him.

Well, if he was heading to the pit of Hell shortly, he might as well drive it like he stole it.

* * *

 

They found Seventeen and Eighteen giggling and jumping from chandelier to chandelier.

"You've got to be kidding me," Vegeta deadpanned.

Bulma shot him an understanding look.

"There you are, you lovebirds!" Seventeen called, jumping off the chandelier and landing the thirty feet gracefully, the heavy, gold chandelier rocking back and forth above.  
"Oh, snap, Seventeen. Remember, they're not an item anymore." Eighteen made the jump effortlessly to stand beside him, flipping her fair hair out of her face.

"No biggie. More Blue Menace for me, then."

It was Vegeta's turn to growl.

"Why don't you take your shirt off, Vegeta. It's going to get hot in here as you enjoy watching a real woman fight." She leveled a pompous smirk at him.

'They're overconfident," Vegeta rumbled.

"No," Bulma countered softly. "No, I don't think they are. I just think...they've got something up their sleeve," she puzzled out.

As Vegeta scrutinized these new enemies, a door opened from the far side of the ballroom, and disgusting Bulma and galling Vegeta, Yamcha Matsumoto sauntered in.

"Oh, good, I haven't missed anything."

He sidled up to the other fighters with his hands in his suit pockets.

"How are you still alive," Bulma protested savagely. "I killed you!"

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, and he watched the pair's interaction, watching Bulma's pale, stricken face curiously.

"I told you, it takes a lot of work to make me come. Don't hold it against me if you couldn't finish me off."

Bulma clenched her fists and took heaving breaths.

"Aw, a lover's quarrel."

"How sweet."

A dagger sailed between them and plunged into Seventeen's chest with a dull thump, wiping the smirk off his face as he looked down at himself distastefully. "Not nice," he bristled, pulling it out of his chest smoothly and throwing it back at Bulma. She barely caught the butt of it before it sunk into her shoulder.

"Oh, Seventeen, you don't want damaged goods, now do you?"

"You're right, Eighteen. Unlike Yamcha, I like my women in one piece."

Yamcha laughed and turned to Vegeta. "So, tell me, Vengeance. Is it true that you and Blue have had something going on?" Yamcha asked him genially.

"He's goading you," Bulma rushed.

"Shut up," Vegeta snapped at her. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, worm? Like you didn't know she was when you were fucking her."

"Vegeta, please," she cried.

"I mean, all of this time, she's fooling the both of us. Well, at least we can agree on one thing, am I right? That asshole of hers is so tight."

Bulma screamed, and in a blaze of wings and white light, seemed to appear in front of Yamcha instantly. "You should have stayed dead!" She screamed as she punched a hole straight through his chest.

To her horror, she felt her fist slide past muscle and hit steel, and yanked her fist out of him, absent of gore. Instead, flopping in her grip, was a tangle black wires.

"King Kai was right," she breathed.

"Oh, my pretty little Bulma—or should I say, Maron." He wrapped her in his unyielding arms, and she fought vomit, struggling to get away from his unbreakably rigid hold.  
"I'd really like to take you back to my place and finish what we started. After all, you never even got yours! What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't finish you off?"

The smell of him completely nauseated her, and she struggled against him helplessly, gulping. She flung out her wings forcefully. It broke his hold just as a bullet sailed through his forehead.

Seventeen and Eighteen broke out into laughter. "Oh, man, Yamcha! Oh, man, he shot you in the face!"

"You fuckers, you watched him do that and didn't say anything!" Yamcha yelled at them, prying the bullet from his forehead. Bulma squatted defensively after stumbling away, gawking as he fingered the wound with vanity.

"That's for not knowing how to treat a woman," Vegeta sneered.

"I had bone gristle on my knuckles and I kicked your head off your shoulders," she reasoned, on the edge of frenzy.

"Yeah, I still owe you for that one, bitch!" He backhanded Bulma with brute force, sending her skidding a dozen feet away on the waxed floor.

They all turned as Vegeta bellowed, charging Yamcha and tackling him at the knees, his guns in their holsters lifting from his back.

In one swift move, Vegeta shoved the barrel of his Aldebaran down Yamcha's throat, snapped his fingers to ignite the gunpowder, and unloaded it with a resounding boom into Yamcha's mouth.

"Only a coward hits the mother of his child," chided Vegeta.

Yamcha jerked with the force of point blank range.

"Wait, what?" Seventeen questioned.

"The mother of whose child?" Eighteen quipped.

Seventeen gaped. "Oh, man, is the Blue Menace pregnant?" Seventeen asked with awe and began chuckling. "Oh, Yamcha, how the hell did that happen?"

Vegeta stood, heaving beside Yamcha's body as it twitched, blinking, and then sat up rigidly, a Frankenstein coming to life. Bulma saw with horror that the back of his neck was gone.

"Fuck that bitch," he rasped, his voice grating metallically. "She's not carrying my child."

Vegeta's leg rose and sailed down with enough force to sever Yamcha's shoulder from his body with his boot heel.

"Aw what the fuck! I'm not completely metal, asshole!"

"Do you still feel pain?" Vegeta drawled viciously, kicking Yamcha's face from the side, knocking it almost backwards. "This is a fraction of the pain that I've felt because of you."

"Probably only a fraction of what Bulma felt under him," Eighteen snickered.

"This is like daytime television," Seventeen drawled.

That's when Bulma rushed her, katana in one hand and dagger in the other, low and quick. Eighteen hopped over her, but not before Bulma was able to yank her ankle and pull her downwards, slamming her face first into the floor. She slammed the knife into Eighteen's lower back and raised her sword with both hands to cut through her neck in true executioners style, when she heard a sickening snap, and glanced up.

Seventeen held Yamcha's head in his hands as Yamcha's body fell to the floor heavily, leaking brackish blood.

Vegeta stared at Bulma, watching for her reaction.

Bulma stared at Seventeen from her crouch, baffled.

Straightening, she stomped her boot heel forcefully into Eighteen's neck before backing away.

"You'll pay for that, bitch," she heard her grunt, her head buried in the tiles, her hands flitting behind her back in search of the knife.

Seventeen snorted and tossed Yamcha's head behind him.

"What a bore," he drawled. "There's only room for two androids in this forsaken city," he lectured, "and that sociopath is not one of them."

"That's it," Bulma wondered out loud. "Vegeta, that's it!” For just a moment, she bedazzled him with a smile. "They're androids. Not just Yamcha. Seventeen and Eighteen."

Vegeta stared at her with wide eyes.

He was pretty sure he was getting too old for this.

"They can't be killed the old fashioned way," she continued. "That's what all that research and fundraising was for! Red is investing in cybernetics!" She nearly wooped with the revelation. It was such a token Bulma response that Vegeta found himself reciprocating her smile, and then buried it with a frown.

"Smart bitch, aren't you," Eighteen snarled before kicking Bulma in the arm, breaking it noisily.

Bulma sank to her knees, clenching her teeth against the stabbing white hot heat, fighting the urge to pass out.

Vegeta hated her, hated her with all his heart; but he just couldn't stand seeing her in pain. He was having a pretty difficult time pretending he didn't have feelings for her. He grit his teeth with annoyance, resolving to defend her only one last time, goddamnet.

He shot through Eighteen's leg.

"What the hell, Ouji!" Eighteen yelled.

"Looks like your relationship chances are getting slimmer by the second," Seventeen commented wryly. "Whose side are you on anyway?" Seventeen asked him.

"Hell's."

Bulma sat on her knees, clutching her arm and taking in deep breaths, trying to meditate through the pain. A flash of light erupted from her, and Bulma let out a wail, her arm, quite remarkably, straightening right in front of their eyes. With rare expressions of surprise, the two androids watched her arm heal, until it lost its twinkling effervescence.

"So it's true. You're doing Kami's work," Eighteen commented inquisitively.

"I really thought Commander Red was just harping about Heaven and Hell like a nut job. He never seemed very religious to me," Seventeen told her.

"He's building an army of cyborgs to put a wall between himself and Heaven and Hell," Eighteen complained, shaking her leg out in front of her, and the bullet dropped from her cuff and rolled a few feet to the side. "The man is a piece of work, regardless."

"Yea, well, I don't think I'm comfortable with that," Seventeen admitted. "I mean, Yamcha's one thing. Any more missing women and the cops would be all over Red Ribbon. The guy was a creep."

"Yeah, what a tool."

"But, the truth is, I don't much like the idea of any more androids," he drawled.

Bulma had stood up shakily, and she and Vegeta shared a glance at the android's exchange, who ignored them.

Her head teetered to the side to fix him with wide eyes. "They can't be harmed or killed," she whispered, "Unless they're decapitated. They're the secret we've been after all this time."

Vegeta's features hardened and he nodded with understanding.

"Are you okay?" It came out of Vegeta's mouth before he could stop it.

Bulma gave him a small, watery smile. "I'm fine. I didn't know that that could happen."

"The healing?" He said, turning away from her indifferently, trying to resume his cold mask.

"Any of it, really. But yes. I don't think...I don't think it can save me from death," she whispered. "And I don't know how many chances I get with it."

"Alright, you two. We have a proposal," Seventeen interrupted them.

Vegeta and Bulma looked at them wearily.

"What if we don't kill you."

Vegeta chuffed, and Bulma's eyebrow raised.

"We have no reason to trust you," Vegeta argued.

"I don't want to fight. In fact, I'm still hoping I have a chance to take Blue Menace out for dinner," Seventeen countered with saccharine sarcasm.

Bulma rolled her eyes. "Get bent."

Vegeta irritated himself with the bolt of relief he felt hearing her reject him.

"Look, maybe we don't want to be Red's bodyguards the rest of our lives. Especially if Heaven and Hell are involved. I mean, it's not like we have souls anymore or anything, but this isn't our battle. Maybe we just want to go back to living the normal life we had before Red kidnapped us and made us tin cans," Eighteen explained, pouting.

"You have no allegiance to Red?" Bulma asked cautiously.

Vegeta looked at her with alarm. "You can't seriously be considering this."

She cast a scornful look at Vegeta and turned back to the androids. Vegeta knew that look. That was the "shut up" expression she got whenever was backed into a corner.  
"I'm on a mission from God," Bulma explained gently. "In my contract it states that I must eradicate all of Red Ribbon, no exceptions. But Heaven may accept a deal if, in your heart, you remove yourselves from the Red Ribbon lifestyle, forever."

"You're a rash idiot," Vegeta vented.

"What?" Her voice hit its higher registers with her defensiveness. "I can understand wanting to go back to the way things were before." She fixed him with a withering stare.  
Black fire met blue steel.

"If you're not honest, it won't work. I or someone else will be back to collect on you," she informed them candidly.

"Look, Briefs, we're not programmed to like him or defend him. At least, not anymore."

"We overrode the programming," Seventeen explained. "We're much smarter than he gives us credit for." He smirked sharply.

Bulma's eyes widened. "You still have souls."

"We're just here because, what else are we supposed to do?" Eighteen's arms crossed over her chest and looked at the ground reproachfully.

"Then you have to take us to Red," Bulma demanded.

"Just what is it you want from him anyway," Seventeen asked them as if the idea were half-baked.

"He owes me his life," Bulma remarked grimly.

"He owes me a rice cooker," Vegeta answered sheepishly.

They all stared at him.

"It's a long story."

The man, all sharply defined muscle and glowering menace, holding himself regularly with all the pride of a prince, flushed pink, and Bulma suppressed the urge to kiss the embarrassment right off his face.

"The Demon King has something very important magically sealed in a rice cooker. Your leader stole it to disadvantage him, and I'm charged with getting it back."

"You never told me that." Bulma broke the awkward silence softly.

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who can keep secrets."

Her face hardened and she turned from him.

"Are you talking about the Hello Kitty rice cooker he keeps in his desk drawer?" Seventeen posited.

His question instigated another round of stares in Vegeta's direction.

"Oh, yeah, I know the one," Eighteen offered. "It's pink, has the Hello Kitty friends on the front."

"Can this night possibly get any more absurd," Bulma deadpanned.

"Well, there you go, Ouji. We told you where to get back the Demon King's...rice cooker. Now, if we lead you to him, Bulma, will you spare our lives?"

Eighteen and Seventeen looked at her warily, awaiting rejection and battle.

"You're negotiating with the enemy," Vegeta snarled.

"I didn't ask your opinion, minion. What happens on the Earthly plane between Heaven and its denizens is no concern of yours," Bulma snarled back at him. She turned to the androids. "It's a deal."

Eighteen and Seventeen shared a flicker of relief.

"Heaven offers benevolence, Vegeta. A trait you should acquire," she said darkly.

"Give me a break," he snarled, and stomped away to lean up against the wall to brood.

The androids glanced at him, and Eighteen motion to Bulma. "Follow me."

Bulma didn't glance back at Vegeta as she followed them inside the elevator.

Those days were over, anyway.

 

IX. "The Price of Love"

  
The elevator doors drifted open revealing a darkened hallway.

The hall stretched out into darkness and ended with one orange, closed door, punctuating the darkness. The other offices and conference rooms they passed were dark and silent, their large wall of windows overlooking the night cityscape.

Bulma hadn't been to the top floor of her father's building since she was young. She walked this hallway last with her 3rd grade grade report on the butterfly's life cycle rumpled up in her hands, waving hello effusively to the Capsule Corp executives in their offices.

It was all nauseatingly familiar.

The androids led her down the hall silently. As they approached the door, Eighteen turned to her, regarding her icily. "If you want Red dead, you're going to have to do it yourself."

Bulma nodded once, sharply. "It's my destiny."

"So you say," the young woman agreed dryly before opening the door and stepping in. Seventeen followed behind, leaving Bulma to enter last.

Against the desk—her father's oversized, walnut antique—stood a stocky red head, his smattering of freckles making him appear unthreatening, despite the eye patch that stretched across his face. His hands were interlocked in front of him, and his thick, flat lips arched in a welcoming smile. He was middle aged but aging well, and remarkably enough...wearing a janitor's uniform.

Bulma recalled the goon at the industrial park lamenting that no one knew the identity of the Red Ribbon leader and that, for all they knew, he was masquerading as a janitor. Her heart sped up.

Seventeen and Eighteen separated, settling to slump in the chairs in front of the desk, revealing Bulma between them.

"What kind of bodyguards lead an enemy straight to my doorstep?" He asked mildly.

"We're out of here, Red," Eighteen ventured. "We're done being your toadies." She waved her hand at him dismissively.

"Gero created you years ago, and you're just now deciding to maroon? That's true poetic irony." He looked back and forth between them. "Did she put you up to this?" He had yet to spare Bulma a glance, though it was clear her was talking about her.

"This job is dull," Eighteen explained in a tone that seeped boredom. "And I don't really think you have any way of stopping us."

"Yeah. If I'm right, you now have no army and no bodyguards. You have nothing," Seventeen quipped, smirking at his sister.

"Is that so?"

Red reached behind him and into a drawer, pulling out a small device about the size of a cell phone.

"If you think you're so impervious, try fighting this."

His thumb moved over the device, and Seventeen dropped to the ground, the light suddenly vacated from his eyes.

"Seventeen!" Eighteen called out.

Bulma watched as she leapt up to strike at Red's head, but as in slow motion, he pushed the button, and she, too, fell limply, heavily, to the floor.

Bulma felt her heart pounding in her chest.

In the darkness, it was just him and her now. Seventeen and Eighteen's bodies lay cool and still between them.

"You sure do look like your father."

Bulma rocked with a maelstrom of sudden rage. "Shut up about my father. You don't deserve to even speak his name."

"Heaven sent you to me, huh? That was nice of them, sending me an angel. Although you're really not my type. More of Yamcha's, apparently."

There was a fine line between existing and not existing for the supernatural, and Bulma straddled it. Filled by hatred, buttressed by bitterness, fueled by a rancorous grudge that had lifted her to the edge of the spirit world, the Archangel was no longer an auxiliary to her; they were one in the same, they were Rage embodied, they were a liminal demand, harboring the powers of the Kai's and the will of God. She felt out of body, anchored to the fifty-fifth floor of Capsule Corp simply by fury.

She was willing to bet he didn't have a device somewhere to turn her off.

She slid her katana out of the sheath quickly and gracefully, her eyes filled by blue fire, her mouth in a firm line, her body a weapon, lithely strung, strained as it waited to be pulled taut and let go.

"It's interesting to me that you chose to join her, after all she's done to you," Red remarked casually.

"I'm not here for her." She heard Vegeta grate from behind her.

"I'll be damned if you aren't. Just yesterday you were trying to kill Piccolo to get out of your contract for her."

"You are damned to Hell," Vegeta countered saucily, while Bulma, sword wavering in her grip, Archangel stuttering, turned to Vegeta.

"Oh no, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be staying on Earth. Surely you can puzzle out the mystery," he smiled sickly at Bulma. "Just like tonight, I finally puzzled out my own mystery. But why don't you explain to her just what your contract with Piccolo entails? Why don't you confess your own dark secret?" He sat on the front lip of the desk and crossed his arms casually.

Sword drooping, Bulma turned to Vegeta.

"Like, how no matter how mad you are at her for betraying your commitment, it doesn't matter. You're not sticking around anyway."

"What is he talking about?" Bulma turned to Vegeta, the Archangel's smooth, ethereal voice cracking with confusion.

Vegeta continued looking forward sternly. Bulma knew he was trying to hide something.

"What does he mean you're not sticking around?" Bulma demanded, growing concerned.

"He's trying to divide us," Vegeta barked. "He's a master manipulator. Don't give in."

"But I'm not lying, am I? Why don't you explain to her that you're leaving this place once you extract Kami's treasure from me, and you're not coming back? That you were just going to leave her, without even letting her know?"

"That wasn't my only option, damnet!"

"And what, defeating and usurping the Demon King is? What if you actually had the strength to beat him? Then what? You'd still be reigning from Hell."

"I'd have the authority to walk on Earth," Vegeta snarled, "I would get to visit-"

"What is he talking about, Vegeta," Bulma barked nervously.

Vegeta turned to her angrily but didn't speak.

"Damnet, Vegeta, what are you hiding?!"

"What does it matter? We're through!"

His harsh tone made Bulma's eyes burn stupidly with fresh tears.

Red smiled.

"Vegeta's contract comes with a clause that demands he return to Hell as soon as Piccolo's possession is safely returned to him. Indefinitely." His voice dipped with false concern. "He never told you?"

"No. He didn't." She looked out at the skyline through the wall of windows.

"I was working on reversing it," she heard Vegeta grouse. She turned angrily toward him.

"You still should have let me know!"

"I didn't want to hurt you!"

"We could have figured something out together!"

"Feh." Vegeta turned his body away from her, and the quiet grew thick.

"How were you going to fight it, V?" Bulma asked him softly. "Divine Contracts are written in blood and celestial Kai magic. There's no undoing them."

"I was planning on challenging Piccolo," he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "It would make the contract null and void."

"And then reign over Hell while I lived my life alone?"

"I would have visited," he argued.

"Our engagement was a lie." Bulma's voice rose, strained.

"There's nothing I could do about it, goddamnet!" Vegeta roared. "I signed that contract long before I met you."

"I thought that Piccolo gave you magic so you could just get something back for him, that this was just a favor to Piccolo to help you get revenge on Red Ribbon-"

"I did do it for revenge. I sold my soul for revenge. He game me the help I needed to do it, but I had to give him my soul to convince him to do it. The rice cooker was ancillary."

He glanced at her from lowered lashes. "I just wanted you to have everything before I left you."

"I would have rather just had you," she whispered.

"Good thing Yamcha stepped in to clear all this up," Red smiled at them from his perch on the desk.

Bulma was floundering. It was as if each time she'd surface from a vast, dark sea, the sea would wash over her again, pressing her lower into the rip tide than before.

She truly didn't have anybody on this planet that she could trust.

Because of this man in front of her.

"You killed my parents." Bulma's voice scraped across her lower registers, eyes glinting.

Red seemed mildly surprised. "I didn't. I hired Yamcha to do it, when he was still just a teenage delinquent, willing to earn his cash in any way he could. I'm the one who got him into the major leagues, you know. You could call me his mentor, if you will," Red said affectionately.

"You used him and the mobsters as pawns to raise your money and arm your own personal army," Bulma intoned. "You kidnapped two teenagers and outfitted them with cybernetics, against their will. Then you trusted Gero enough to allow him to start working on Yamcha. Am I right?"

"Go on," Red smiled, reaching over the desk and opening the top drawer. Bulma and Vegeta tensed, but he simply pulled out a cigar box, stuffing a fat cigar into his mouth and lighting it with a match.

"With the intention of making your army a mass of invulnerable androids."

"Annnd?"

"And yourself one, too," she said, putting all the pieces together at last. "Your whole career has been a project to become immortal. To keep yourself out of reach of both Heaven and Hell." Bulma felt the same high she got when she was a student, making discoveries about the forces of the universe. "That's what you meant by staying on Earth."

Red opened his hands, conceding. "Why do you think they're so obsessed with me? I defy their logic, their rules of nature. I make my own rules." Red's genial attitude finally faltered, and he sneered. "Unlike you. You just cried cried cried until Kami gave you something to do. You think that's purpose, that that's love? That's being a puppet on a string. You're pathetic. Just like your father," he spat. "At least I took my destiny into my own hands. I climbed to the top, without any magic."

Red rose from the desk and made his way to the limp body of Seventeen, looming over him.

"Do you want to understand what it means to be free?"

With a sick crack, Red broke Seventeen's neck expertly.

Bulma felt a pang of regret.

"Being free and creating your own destiny is refusing to be patronized for it in Hell. It's about choosing your own life without any threats from Heaven."

Red strode over to Eighteen's prone form and stared into Bulma's eyes as he twisted Eighteen's legs unnaturally until they, too, snapped, falling heavily to the floor at an bizarre angle.

"You're fooling yourself," Bulma hollered. "You didn't build an empire on your own. You couldn't have done it without the help of hundreds of criminals. It's like a Pharaoh claiming he built the pyramids, like Hadrian claiming he built his wall. You're nothing without foot soldiers! Your destiny is nothing without the foolishness of other people! That's nothing to be proud of, " Bulma lectured him heatedly. "And what do you have to show for it? You have no true family or friends. All you have is blood on your hands."

"Just because I deal in the currency of blood and fueled by the foolishness of others," he intoned, "doesn't make it any less rewarding."

"You're a weakling," chimed Vegeta from her side a few feet away. "You could not have done any of this on your own. To think that my father lost the company he built from the ground up to such a coward. Even Hell knows the difference between right and wrong."

"Without investors and employees," he told Vegeta, "your father was nothing. Without the education provided by other people, your father would have been nothing." He pointed to Bulma. "Without your mothers, without God or the Devil, you two would be nothing. But without me," he smiled, "your father's would still be alive. Do you see the difference? I control the power. I channel the ambitions of men. I end things, I am not ended. I am a God on this plane. You are the sycophants. And once I kill you two, I will be ready to challenge the rulers of the celestial planes."

Vegeta and Bulma's eyes widened.

"I'm done talking," Bulma state matter of factly, looking at Vegeta. "What say you we shut him up?"

For the first time since their estrangement, Vegeta gave her a saucy smirk.

"Ladies first."

Bulma and Vegeta bumrushed Red.

 

X. "Warrior Concerto"

It became very apparent very quickly that they were outmatched.

They didn't know what to expect as they sprinted towards him; everything in their lives seemed to have led up to this point, and expectations were high. What they weren't expecting was the sheer volume of brute force available to him. Before, he just seemed deceptive and slimy, but in combat, he was straight forward and brutal. His movements were economical and he didn't pull punches. His style superseded brawling; it was a highly trained dance of killing movements. She had been trained in advanced weaponry and martial evasion, but she had no idea how to approach a man that was so powerfully straight forward. Especially when Vegeta seemed more than happy to refuse partnering up to tag team him, their tactics disconcerted.

She understood this clearly when Red disarmed her minutes within the fight, throwing her katana to skid across the floor and clatter up against the wall before she was tackled, barrel rolling her into his desk. She saw stars momentarily before she glimpsed Vegeta jump into the fray.

Vegeta, however, fared a lot better, despite not relying on his weapons.

"You fight a lot like you've been trained," Vegeta commented with a spirited smirk as they circled each other warily.

"Vegeta Ouji, you should recognize a special forces fighting style when you see one...especially a superior one."

The two merged in a flurry of wrestling. As they were grappling, Bulma waited for an opening to sink a throwing knife into Red's wrist. She wasn't sure if he was android or not, but at least it would slow him down. She was rethinking her strategy now that it was apparent she was no good to them in short range combat, when she saw Red grab Vegeta's hair and yank him to the floor, his face bouncing off the floor. She winced.

Red pinned Vegeta's arms behind his back and dug his knee into Vegeta's broad back. "You haven't told her about that, either, have you?"

Aw, fuck the throwing knife. She couldn't stand seeing Vegeta hurt and she needed him in one piece.

Bulma snuck up behind Red, and as he slammed Vegeta's head into the floor, dazing him, she whacked him hard in the back of the head with a nunchuk. He stiffened and spun around, grabbing her hair and kneeing her in the upper abdomen before kicking her legs out from her. He wrapped the nunchuk chain around her throat and tightened it ruthlessly, a bruise instantly blossoming in a ring around her throat, before punching her in the face and blacking her eye. He was slowed when Vegeta pistol whipped him in the back of the head, and followed it by smashing a chair over his head with a pro wrestler's flair.

"I think you should be more nervous about the fact than she should."

"He never told you he was a special forces soldier before going to law school? He was an expert marksman, a sniper, in the same platoon that I once was. "

Bulma wrenched free of Red's body as Vegeta punch him in the jaw, before receiving the same treatment.

"Why the hell aren't you using your guns?" She squeaked at him.

"Because I can't wait to wipe that smug face off with my bare hands."

"Now whose overconfident," she bitched. "Give me your damn guns and I'll do it!"

Vegeta didn't bother answering her as he stubbornly laid into Red.

Growling, she turned and searched the desk for the matchbox that Red had used when lighting his now long forgotten cigar.

She pulled the desk drawer open with a hiss and had to stop to duck as a plant pot hurdled toward her head, thrown recklessly by none other than Vegeta. She cursed him under her breath and continued her mission.

On her knees, she clasped her hand around the little paper box but knocked into something rattling on the way out.

Peeking in, she saw it.

The Hello Kitty rice maker.

Vegeta hadn't been bluffing.

There was also a file with hers and Vegeta's name on it that looked like it had just been thrown in willy nilly. She flicked through the pages and her blood ran cold.

Her life, and Vegeta's, on paper. She scanned the documents with growing horror. They were all carbon copied to Yamcha's e-mail address. The last document verified that all of their documents had been pulled courtesy of Yamcha's direct order to hack them, tout de suite, once he had been rebuilt.

Yamcha had armed Red with the knowledge of their history to use against him.

She understood that this wasn't just a brawl; this was a battle of wits with a master manipulator. Her greatest challenge yet.

Unfortunately, the time to talk had evidently passed, as Vegeta hurled the Red Ribbon leader into the wall and then inserted himself in between Red's legs as he stumbled away from the wall, picking him up piggy back style and throwing himself backwards, slamming Red's back into her father's desk.

The desk crumpled in on the men, the drawers crushed inwards.

Bulma watched it cave in just inches from her face, gaping. As the men struggled to right themselves, Bulma sat the file on the carpet and scooted further away, trying to put distance between herself and Red to give herself time to strategize.

It was not to be.

As she flipped to all fours, she spotted both Betelgeuse, lost during Vegeta's body slam stunt, and the device that had shut down the androids, and as she reached out for it, she heard a sick thump. She turned her head around and saw Vegeta lying in the middle of the office and Red towering over him. To her dismay, she saw that Red had cracked the glass to a fire extinguisher and clobbered Vegeta in the face with it.

"No," she groaned, as Red held it aloft before bringing it down with all of his strength onto Vegeta's body.

"No!" She wailed.

And then regretted it, as Red tossed the fire extinguisher carelessly onto the floor and turned to look at her, assessing.

"No, please," she heard herself say, and whether or not she was begging for Vegeta's life or her own, she couldn't say.

Watching Red make his way toward her, Bulma felt the renewed resilience of the Archangel form under her skin, and she stood to face him.

Spryly, Red bent down and pulled Aldebaran from Vegeta's side holster and cocked and lit it with the cigar left ignored on the floor.

As the fuse hissed to life, Bulma reacted reflexively.

The slug buried itself in her shoulder just as her throwing knives left her hands, drifting through the air, polished and mercurial and drifting oh so slowly, to glide into Red's belly as if it were butter.

Red lumbered towards her and slammed the butt of the gun down on her cheek, a cloud of gunpowder powdering her face. The impact forced her both to her knees and backwards to barrel roll towards the wall of windows.

She tried standing, but wobbled like a newborn foal, and sunk instead to her knees to cast a disorientated glare at him.

Red glanced around, and then plucked a small walnut desk from the corner. He stared at her soullessly as he hefted the desk to his chest, and then swung it backwards before shotputting it right at Bulma.

She tried to leap out of the way but didn't make it very far, just flattening and covering her head with her hands in the knick of time for them to take the brunt of the table, which caught her up in its movement, tumbling her closer to the windows before depositing her in front of them as it continued on through them, as persevering as tumbleweed.

She choked on the pain throbbing through her hands. They screamed at her with searing, mind numbing indignity. She tried bending her fingers and let out a little anguished wail as they protested.

She glanced up, stricken, at Red, who listed and stumbled toward her, the hilts of her daggers sticking out of his belly like pins stuck in a voodoo doll.

He wasn't android yet after all.

With the last of his strength, Red grabbed her by her suit and pitched her into the center of the room before collapsing to his knees.

Bulma skidded and rolled into the rubble left behind from her father's desk, dreamily recalling a time when, during humid summer evenings, she and other children would race, rolling down a hill, their worlds momentarily a kaleidoscope of vivid green grass and endless blue sky.

With a start, she hit her head against wood, and came to a rest halfway slumped against the remainder of the desk. Tiredly, she fell onto her side, content to just watch the end of her life like it were a television screen.

Vegeta lay gasping on his side for air, coughing up blood. From her side, Bulma could see Red slowly pulling himself toward him with her knife clutched in his hand.

She searched her thigh with numb hands and discerned something capsule shaped. She pulled the plunger out with her teeth and sat it on the ground. Her mother and fathers items, the engagement ring, and the senzu lay in the rubble that covered her. She bit her lip in consideration. She could eat the last senzu, but she knew, if he hit her again, she wouldn't be able to come back from another attack and still take him out. She needed a better defense if she wanted to make certain that Vegeta stayed in one piece and Red did not.

She stared at Vegeta's crumpled form, her face screwing up with grim consideration.

She made a decision.

She pulled herself out of the rubble, towards Eighteen's motionless body, as Red made his slow, sure crawl on his elbows towards Vegeta's prone form.

The remote device was a few feet further from the blonde, and Bulma wiggled her body just past the android to capture it where it had clattered to the floor after Vegeta had slammed Red into the desk.

Bulma fingered the device with numb, fat fingers and turned the dial.

Eighteen's eyes opened, gazing cloudily up at the ceiling.

"Eighteen," Bulma croaked. "I need you to throw me towards the bookcase, and then distract Red. Please." She handed the half senzu to Eighteen between her thumb and index finger.

Eighteen silently regarded Bulma.

"It will heal what Red did to you..." at Eighteen's blank gaze, Bulma whispered. "He broke your legs."

Eighteen's glassy eyes hardened into ice, and her lips slowly parted. Bulma slid it between her lips clumsily and waited until she felt Eighteen's tongue press the bean up against the roof of her mouth and watched as she dryly swallowed it down, down, down into the androids belly.

Eighteen sprang up silently, and heaved Bulma prudently over her shoulder into a fireman's carry.

"Are you ready?"

Bulma nodded, bracing for impact.

With uncanny ease, Eighteen lifted Bulma behind her head and then tossed her into the bookcase near the two struggling men. Bulma hit hard, books and splintered boards falling with heavy plunks on her head and back.

This was her only chance.

Eighteen stalked Red silently, who was dazedly trying to figure out what happened to the bookcase as he pressed his forearm into Vegeta's throat forcefully, bringing up his trembling arm to slit Vegeta's throat.

Bulma reached into her suit front and felt for the matchbox.

Bulma blew air through her nose and struggled to strike the match against the gritty tape on the box. After three failed attempts, Bulma sobbed and struck it one more time as she heard Eighteen cry out.

"Bulma, now!"

The little red head of the match flared to life, and she sobbed happily and lowered it to the supernatural gun as she tried aiming the bulky thing. The barrel quivered, hopping in Bulma's shaky hands between Eighteen, Vegeta, and Red. The earthly yellow fire ate at the fuse, making this one shot absolutely crucial.

Eighteen had Red's arms braced behind his back, and try as he might, he couldn't dislodge or outmaneuver the android. Vegeta was still pinned under his knees, trying not to howl in the pain of Red's weight on his wrists.

That's when Red saw the little floating spot of light, Bulma's right eye squinting shut as she aimed, and took one last shot at Vegeta and Bulma.

"Vegeta, did she ever tell you who the father was?"

Vegeta, against his will, looked up at Red from bruised eyes with attention.

Red looked at Vegeta sympathetically and said, "It's mine. If you don't believe me, ask her where she was the night you couldn't make her board speech, the night before you proposed. She was working for me that night, in your bed—"

The gun fired with a resounding boom as it cut the air on its way into Red's skull.

Red jerked back into Eighteen's chest as Vegeta's bullet sunk into his brain.

Eighteen tossed his body to the side, and Vegeta scrambled up with as much grace as he could manage, and stood over Red to make sure he was truly dead. Eighteen backed away warily.

And then he looked at the woman who had betrayed him in every conceivable way. He watched her fall like a sack of potatoes out of the wood pile next to the broken window, her chest rising and falling jerkily, and, without a second though, made his way over to her to end her.

As the life drifted out of Red's eyes, Bulma's labored breathing hitched in a sigh, broken ribs needling her lungs. She closed her eyes in relief. The moment had finally come. The Boss was dead, and Red Ribbon was no more. She had fulfilled her contract.

The moment didn't last long though—she felt the familiar strain at her back and grit her teeth as she expected her wings to reabsorb.

Instead, with a flash of white heat and a wave of dizziness, Bulma felt something intrinsic, something subterranean separate from her and disappear. Bulma blinked at the low tiled ceiling. She felt hollowed out. Kami's magic had finally left her. She was totally human once again.

That's when she heard the crunch of boots on glass and remembered with anguish that Vegeta was quite convinced that she was his father's murderer's mercenary, carrying his child.

He leaned over her and mused about killing her as her breath came quick and shallow. He hated her, hated her for betraying his hopes for them, but most of all, for cuckolding him and sleeping with his enemies. He was a prideful man, and she had hit him where it hurt most.

She understood that, based on Red's machinations and Yamcha's manipulations of them, she deserved nothing less than his unadulterated hatred. And that's why she gave him the only gift she could: the knowledge that he was a father.

But she hadn't expected him to drop her out of the skyscrapers top most windows.

 

XI. "The Windfall of Destiny"

  
Bulma stared transfixed at the night sky as the wind buffeted her outstretched arms and wondered if this is what Heaven would feel like.

When she had first caught sight of Vegeta that fall evening in the doorway of the coffee shop, never in a million years had she thought that that handsome man would fascinate her, impassion her, and fall for her, right before he killed her.

Her hair whipped upwards, stinging her face, her arms and legs dangling and wheeling as if trying to slow her fall against their own logic.

Had she satisfied Kami finally? Would Kami forgive her for the life inside her that would never be born?

Vegeta had wanted to give the gift of his life's work to her before being spirited away by the Demon King. The least she could do was give him the gift of knowing he was a father.

Or would have been, before Red drove a wedge between them.

The stars were hidden by thick, swarming clouds, lit a red violet by the city lights, squeezing out fat rain drops that splattered against her as she passed the last five hundred feet mark of her father's empire.

No matter how angry he was with her, no matter how they had hurt each other, she forgave him.

She would always love him, into death and beyond. Always and forever.

She was ready to die.

She closed her eyes and stopped fighting, stilling like a bird riding a breeze, and sighed.

The lights below began glowing brighter and she was able to hear the distant sounds of traffic. She straightened her arms and leaned into the wind to plummet faster.  
Bulma was viciously jerked to a stop, knocking the air out of her diaphragm violently as the world swung sideways. She saw the granite wall of Capsule Corp rapidly approaching and her eyes widened as she anticipated smashing into it at blunt speeds. She heard a bellow and felt her abdomen squeezed before impacting. Instead, she bounced roughly off the walls, scraping at her arm and cheek before twirling outwards through the air. Her body swung back towards the building, more slowly this time, and as she neared a window ledge, she was jerked to a stop, hovering just over the brick. Her feet tap danced to find purchase, and her palms slapped the window, stinging, as she regained her foothold on solid ground.

She felt a heaviness at her back holding her up, her legs trembling.

She grasped at the pressure on her belly as she stared at the shadow of her reflection in the window and spied the silhouette of a man behind her.

It was an arm.

Her arm curled back behind her head, feeling for a body, and collided with a shoulder.

Vegeta breathe heavily in her ear, and readjusted them painfully on the window ledge.

She cocked her head achingly toward him.

He slowly, carefully spun her around so that they were pressed belly to belly. His right arm locked straight above his head, and Bulma saw the grappling gun gripped with white knuckles, the taut rope that had saved them from falling just another 200 feet to their death.

Her arm moved heavily to rest her palm against his smooth face, staring at him with wonder.

"Are you okay?" He breathed roughly.

She thought she nodded. He was staring intently, occasionally glancing upwards at the line as though he believed at any moment it would snap.

"Bulma," he rasped emotionally.

She laced her aching arms around her neck and held him, his own arm squeezing her gently.

Rain sputtered to life around them, the window ledge barely sheltering them from the increasing pour of rain. Lightning lit their stark faces, and Bulma could see Vegeta's expression was glazed with anxiety.

She caressed his jaw, his sharp cheekbones, lovingly.

"Thank you," she rasped.

He looked at her with deep consideration and then shook his head, clenching his eyes shut and turning his head away from her.

He glanced down, and then to her terror, tightened his grip on her and pushed them off the wall with his feet, sending them careening back over the street.

Bulma let out a little shriek as Vegeta slowly lowered them down, down, down, until she could distinguish the colors of the cars and see the sheen of rain on the dark streets. Vegeta felt for the sidewalk with his toes, the pavement scraping against his boots, and then released the grappling gun, sending them stumbling into the wall of the building. His hands curled quickly around her head to protect her from hitting the wall, taking the impact with his knuckles.

Pinning her against the wall so that she wouldn't fall, he rested his forehead on hers.

They stood like that for a long moment.

"I'm sorry," Vegeta finally whispered.

"Me too."

He looked upwards into her face. "I'm sorry for not telling you about my contract. I was...avoiding reality."

Bulma nodded, but he continued. "I'm sorry for the way I reacted earlier tonight."

"Vegeta," Bulma stuttered, shaking her head. "I...I love you," she lamented into his shoulder.

"I love you, too," he kissed her cheek and pressed her close. "I'm so sorry."

They stood in each others arms for another moment before she sought his hand, interlacing his fingers with her own and burying her face into his neck.

He pulled back after running his fingers over her own and regarded her hand.

She glanced at the her hand, swollen and raw, and then glanced up at him. His face was hard, but his eyes regarded her with understanding.

"Oh!" She reached for her capsules and popped one. Her most personal items appeared in her hand: the delicate chain on her mother's necklace wrapped around her father's watch, her engagement ring resting in the middle.

She stared at it with disquiet, then picking it up delicately, apprehensively held it out to him without looking at him. "You can have it back." Her voice was strained.

Vegeta reached and took it, and then slid it back onto her finger. She stared at him with wide eyes.

"If you have no problems with it, I'd like you to keep it. To remember me by." His eyes slid to the side.

She wanted to tell him that she had something to remember him by inside her, but couldn't open her mouth to form the words. She feared the worst in that regard. She had taken a beating she didn't know if either her or the burgeoning life inside her could come back from.

Vegeta glanced at her in turmoil, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing.

Had they ever even had a chance?

He tilted her head between his hands and placed a leisurely, but chaste kiss on her lips, which, though surprised, were soft and unresisting.

They held each other silently.

"Congratulations," a deep voice echoed in the street, sardonically.

Bulma and Vegeta both looked up. A tall man stood a dozen feet away near the wall, sucking on a black cigarette butt between his thumb and middle finger. He blew out a cloud of smoke quickly. "Are you ready to go get my rice cooker, Ouji?" He looked remarkably similar to a youthful version of Kami: same green skin, some antennas, same hairless, narrow features. He wore a trench coat which flapped open with the wind, baggy trousers, and a plaid button up. He flicked his cigarette into the street, which sank into the gutter with a hiss, and strode up to them.

"She needs medical attention," Vegeta protested.

The man looked her up and down cooly. "Kami's waiting for you at the Lookout with a healer."

"How will I get there?" She asked weakly.

"Let me take her," Vegeta interrupted.

The man narrowed his eyes. "Cut the umbilical cord, Ouji. Chivalry doesn't become you."

"Let me take her," Vegeta growled.

"And if I don't, you gonna challenge my decision?"

She felt Vegeta go rigid. "I might."

"Bah. Fucking mortals. You all have all the wrong priorities. My bar closed. I don't have anything else to do but stand in the fucking rain like a transient. I don't want to wait," his voice grated loudly, "any fucking longer for my rice cooker."

"Vegeta has given his life for you," Bulma argued frailly. "The least you could do is allow him to say goodbye to his life before you force him to abandon it."

The man leveled a pretty intimidating scowl at her. "Ballsy, aren't you."

"What, did you really think Kami found the Chosen One at Charm School?"

The man smirked without humor. "You've got thirty minutes, Ouji. Then you're mine." He glanced at Bulma possessively and flicked his hand at Vegeta carelessly, blue green sparks arching between his hand and Vegeta, traveling like fairy dust to settle on Vegeta's suit and become absorbed, disappearing.

Vegeta nodded sharply.

He scooped Bulma gently up into his arms and blasted off into the sky.

"What a prick," Bulma said sourly into his ear.

"That was the Lord of Hell," Vegeta replied dryly.

"Oh," he heard her mumble dumbly as Piccolo's temporary magic allowed him to breach and burst from the cloud cover and head north toward Kami's Lookout, the moon swollen and pregnant, lighting their way.

* * *

 

"Bulma!" Kami and Popo cried, nearly falling down to greet them.

"She needs a healer," Vegeta demanded gruffly.

"By the looks of it, so do you, young man. Are you her...consort?"

Vegeta, much to his chagrin, blushed.

"Sure," he huffed.

"Are you okay, Bulma?" Popo cried out anxiously.

"I'm tired and I hurt," she whined.

"Dende!"

The boy was beside her instantly, the tight green skin on his face furrowing with the seriousness of their condition. "Hello," he said to her shyly.

"Hello. Just how many relatives do you have floating around here, Kami?"

"We can explain that later, Bulma. Let's get her to a bedroom."

The four of them walked briskly towards the house.

Kami flicked the light on upon reaching the room and gestured to the bed, where Vegeta laid her. "I'm fine, Kami," Bulma groused, swatting at the air.

Dende leaned over her and apologized. "This may feel funny, Miss Bulma."

Vegeta automatically inched closer to her side, a fact that Kami didn't miss.

An ethereal white ball appeared between the boys hands and he swept them slowly over Bulma's body.

The boy gasped, and the light flickered out.

"She's with child," he cried out.

"Yes, son," said Kami. "Will you be able to...save it?"

Dende's eyes closed and he breathed in deeply, the white light reappearing from his palms. After a moment, Dende's breathing thickened with labor, and then the light went out.

He looked between Bulma and Vegeta bashfully. "The boy will be okay."

"Boy?" Vegeta wheezed.

Dende gave him a small nod and bent back over Bulma to complete the healing.

She drowsed on the bed by the time it was complete, and then Dende hovered over Vegeta.

"He's Hell's missionary," he cried, in much the same way he had at the discovery of Bulma's pregnancy.

"If you're going to be hanging out with Kami, kid, you better get used to stranger things," Vegeta groused.

"Only because he made a mistake once, child." Kami's eyes scrutinized Vegeta with a hint of compassion. "Heal him."

Vegeta returned Kami's look with an uncomfortable glower.

Once Dende's work was done, Kami leaned over Bulma. "Is there anything we can get you, child?"

Vegeta startled at Kami's endearment toward Bulma. He had no idea how fond of the woman God was. He had always assumed she had been roped into the deal, as he had been. Now it was clear that her affection toward the old god was equivocally returned.

At least he wouldn't be leaving her alone.

"Let's go put the tea on," Kami suggested, corralling Popo and Dende out of the room before shutting the door with a backwards glance.

All he saw before the door obscured his view was Vegeta, already moved, kneeling on the floor beside Bulma, whose chest rose and fell deeply with sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Finale

  
XII. "Beast of Burden"

  
Eighteen sat down gracefully at the edge of the Lookout, folding her legs beside her and tucking her hair behind her ears.

"You know Kami doesn't like it when you sit here," she commented casually.

Bulma let out a soft snort and continued kicking her dangling legs slowly back and forth over the edge of the world.

Eighteen's lips curled upwards as she took in the lazy swell of cumulus in front of them, dipping slightly at the edge of the horizon as it curled around the dome of the world.  
"Popo is over there feeding the birds again."

The women snickered.

"He just can't listen to reason can he."

Eighteen tossed her hair back behind her and leaned back on her palms, letting the late summer sun rays warm her face. She let out a throaty chuckle. "I can hear him now. 'Kamiiii,'" she mimicked the stalwart man's full, effeminate voice. "'The little swallows leaked on my shoulder again.'"

"'Popo,'" Bulma imitated the Lord of the Earth, "'I'm not cleaning you up again!'"

The women broke out into a stream of lazy chuckles that tapered off into cozy silence as they looked out over the slow September sunset.

"You know," Eighteen interrupted the quiet, "you can't just sit up here forever."

She glanced at the older woman. Despite the blue cloud of curls obscuring her face, she knew the older woman's brows dipped into a deep frown.

After a moment of wading the silence from the other woman, Eighteen continued. "You're six months pregnant, Bulma. In the blink of an eye, you'll be a mom. I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I don't know that Kami's Lookout is the place I'd want to raise a kid."

"And why not? Nothing can harm him up here." Her voice was strained.

"Except a steep fall from the edge," Eighteen drawled. "The same goes for you. You're human now, whether you like to admit it or not. Kami has a good reason for not wanting you sulking at the edge of the Lookout." She watched as Bulma unconsciously checked the tattoo at her hairline with her fingertips and pressed on, her voice hardening. "Do you really want to raise a child with an old green prude and a inoperable genie as its only companions?"

"There's Dende," Bulma argued.

Eighteen knew she was only being defensive because she was out of logical arguments. She knew Bulma harbored a hidden resentment for the little god head who had become Kami's new pet project. Kami had announced him as his heir soon after Bulma had recovered from the slew of injuries racked up her last night as the Chosen One. Dende's education monopolized Kami and Popo's time, while Bulma just got bigger, and remained alone.

Bulma was holding in a lot of feelings, and as her pregnancy progressed, Eighteen, normally indifferent (although mouthy), had to speak out. She didn't like to admit it either, but Bulma had become important to her as she readjusted to this unexpected new chapter in her life. Bulma was her only friend after the death of Seventeen, who had been, for years, her only companion. And, surprisingly, she and Bulma got along swell. Well, swell enough when she wasn't being hard headed.

Eighteen cut her head sharply and scowled. "Look, I just know that if I had the ability to have a child, I wouldn't want to waste the rest of our lives up here," she snapped uncomfortably.

Bulma turned her head toward the blonde, regarding her quietly through a mass of curls.

The older woman had let herself get caught in a funk since the Red Ribbon blow out, showering only interminably, letting her hair grow out in a tangle, the dull blue curls untamed. She was wasting what should have been a joyous time. "You should be enjoying this moment in your life, with or without the father of your baby—"

"Don't go there, Eighteen," Bulma grit out, chest heaving.

Eighteen snapped, the small, untrained handle on her self control exhausted in the face of Bulma's stubbornness. "It's your reluctance to talk about him that's the damn problem, Bulma! Face it! You're a single mom. Now get over it! At least you have people that care about you!" Eighteen snapped to her feet, spilling the black cat that had snuck into her lap while she was arguing with Bulma. The cat sprinted back a few steps and then came to a stop, looking back at the android before sitting on its hind legs to wait for her. "Now show your child that you care about it and get the hell OFF THIS PLACE!" Eighteen turned sharply and stomped off toward the atrium where the women shared a room, the black cat's little paws hurrying to keep up.

"UGH!" Bulma shouted, chucking a small rock off the Lookout and getting clumsily to her feet with impatience. Once upright, Bulma paced back and forth, her arms folded tightly over her chest, the deep tangerine hues of the sun coating her with a fuzzy kind of warmth so at odds with her circumstances.

Bulma's hands fisted, and she regarded the horizon with seething resentment.

"I HATE YOU!" She screamed. "You left me here, alone!" Her voice carried out across the cloud cover with no destination, a message in a bottle never to be intercepted.

She broke down into sobs, but she was unsure whether they came from grief or embarrassment.

She knew Eighteen was right. She knew it was high time she got her shit together, to leave it...him...behind. She understood she could have it a lot worse, she knew they were losing patience with her brooding. But Kami had Popo...and Dende...and Eighteen had her fucking cat, and anyways, Eighteen didn't need anybody...who did she have?

The only love she had ever had, had never meant to be.

Another wave of bitter sorrow snuck up on her, and she choked on tears. She just couldn't stop feeling so hurt.

She felt an encouraging flutter behind her belly button and looked down with surprise. It was like bubbles fizzing inside her ribs—and then a thump followed that she clearly, definitely saw, in the middle of her swollen abdomen. Her hand instinctually moved to capture it, resting on the top of the swell of her belly with wonder. For a long moment there was nothing, Bulma's sadness again crescendoing, and then another swoosh from her left side ended with a hard thunk against her pelvis.

Bulma's breath hitched, and she let out a thick, sharp laugh, her eyes watering—this time with joy.

* * *

 

"Tell me again what we're doing here," Vegeta grumbled, glaring at the line of recently deceased waiting for Yemma to send them to their final destinations.

"Kami wants a word with you," the Demon King sniffed, turning away from the line of stiffs regarding the two men fearfully and addressing Yemma. "What's the hold up with Kami?"

"Count on Heaven to keep Hell waiting," Vegeta snipped.

Yemma's eyes slid sideways to regard Vegeta with irritation and slid away, willing himself to seem unperturbed. Stamping some papers and shoving them towards the man at the head of the line, the man plucked through the papers with unease, his eyes moving over the text before widening and then disappearing in a plume of red smoke.

"Tell me again why I'm letting these hellions stand here and harass me," Yemma griped under his breath. As Piccolo and Vegeta bristled beside him, Yemma raised his voice, its boom making the crowd cower. "Just because you are the right hand of Hell doesn't mean you have to act like it in the middle of neutral territory, Mr. Ouji. Even Kami has the sense to let me run my show without interference or criticism."

Just as Vegeta opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of Kami's sense, and Piccolo wrestled with whether or not to sink his fist into Vegeta's gut to shut him up before all of this uncomfortable waiting was for naught and he had to drag Vegeta away before getting his favor from Kami, a side door opened, revealing a shrunken figure. Kami leaned heavily on his gnarled wooden staff and wiped his brow with his robe.

"Sorry about the wait, folks." He teetered towards them. "King Kai was visiting and Bubbles got into Popo's parsnips. Evidently, his species of simian is quite stimulated by parsnips. They're like catnip to him," Kami complained. "Bulma had to lure him into the Room of Spirit and Time before he destroyed anything else." He chuckled.

Piccolo tensed as he saw Vegeta's posture stiffen at his ex's name. Piccolo grumbled under his breath. He considered drawing his fingers over his lips and 'locking' them at Kami but didn't expect the old fool would get it.

Vegeta had been intolerably irritable the last half year while working in Hell. When Piccolo had suggested he go holler at one of the women in the office and get laid to let off some steam, Vegeta had opened up such a barrage of curses and attacks on his character before stomping away that even the Lord of Hell was left stunned. Really, sometimes he couldn't remember why he thought he'd make a good partner.

Piccolo rolled his eyes. "Well, Kami, here we are. Now what do you want with us."

Kami's face grew grim and he focused on Vegeta. "How have you been, son?"

To Vegeta's surprise, the eyes set in the old god's wizened, wrinkled face were an oaky brown that seemed to see right through him.

Vegeta glanced away uncomfortably. "How do you think I've been."

Kami nodded slightly. "Bulma and the baby are doing fine."

For a split second, Vegeta's eyes clung to Kami's like a man lost in a desert, teased with a mirage of water, before dropping to the ground again.

"She's getting big. Dende checks on them every now and then, since she refuses to leave the Lookout and go to a regular human doctor."

"She hasn't left?" Vegeta's brows knit together with concern.

Kami shook his head. "She's doing about as well as you, I imagine. That's why I've made a deal with Junior here. I think a visit from you would really do her some good."

Vegeta didn't catch Piccolo bristling at the nickname beside him, but Kami did.

Vegeta looked like he was struggling to decide how he should respond as emotions flickered across his face—worry, bitterness, regret, love.

He settled on turning to Piccolo. "You agreed to this?"

"If it means I've racked up a favor from this old fart, than you bet. He, of all people, rang me on my cell phone with the offer. I didn't even know the fool knew what a cell phone is. Look, I don't give a damn about your feelings or this blasted woman everyone can't stop talking about. I don't see what you all think is so compelling about her. But I'm getting my favor from God."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, but Kami spoke up, eyes twinkling. "I think you have other reasons for letting him see her, Junior."

"Will you quit calling me that?" Piccolo snapped loudly. "That's horse shit. Now get going." He waved his hand toward the door dismissively and settled for glaring at the wall. Yemma, eavesdropping, once again grumbled at their language.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Vegeta barked defensively.

"You don't want to see her?" Kami asked with confusion.

"I didn't say that," Vegeta griped under his breath. "I'm just...I'm not prepared, that's all..."

"There's something else I'd like you to do before we head to the Lookout, son," Kami asserted, his eyes darkening. "Something that very well take the anxiousness out of visiting Bulma."

Even Piccolo turned toward the old god with guarded curiosity. "And what is that, you old kook?"

"I've already spoke to Yemma, and it's perfectly legal. I mean, that is, as long as it remains between us," Kami explained, hushed. The two Hellion's eyes widened with the barely legal prospect the scion of Heaven was offering them.

Kami stared into Vegeta's coal black eyes and his hand gripped his staff firmly. "I'd like you to pay Yamcha Matsumoto a visit."

Piccolo barked with laughter. "You've got to be kidding me."

Kami's eyes didn't leave Vegeta's.

"You need to have a talk with him about what happened that night—"

Vegeta's face darkened with anger, and he interrupted Kami with barely contained rage. "I know all I need to know about what happened. The two of them were fucking around, he—surprise, surprise—betrayed her, and the android ripped his head off before she could. That's all I want to talk about this—"

"Bulma was raped by Yamcha that night, Vegeta."

Vegeta visibly tensed, his mouth closing with a snap.

"She was never dating Yamcha," Kami tried to explain, to a man who needed so desperately to understand why his life had turned upside down. "She led him on for a few months upon discovering his link to Red Ribbon, to scout for intelligence. She didn't want to bother you with details while you worked on an exhausting court case. She had high hopes of hurrying up the process of finding the Commander of Red Ribbon, to ease your load at the time. Not that she's told me any of this." Kami shook his head regretfully. "She hasn't even spoken to Eighteen about it, I don't believe. Now that she is human, I have the ability to listen to her thoughts, if I so choose.” Kami cleared his throat. "Yamcha became impatient with her unwillingness to...seal the deal, intimately...so he drugged, beat, and assaulted her, with every intention of ending her life that night, like he had ended the lives of so many other women. That's what activated the Archangel, and that's when he discovered who she was." Kami's mouth drew into a thin line. "And that's how she discovered who he was---your father and her father's murderer."

Vegeta's face went slack with horrifying realization.

"As her both her...foster father...and the overseer of the scheme, I would have rather she had told me her plans. Or at the very least, informed her partner and lover. But she still didn't deserve even a fraction of what he did to her," Kami uttered ominously.

"Why...why didn't she tell me?" Vegeta croaked.

"I imagine because she was feeling overwhelmed by the events of the night. She was suffering through the fatigue and morning sickness the first months of pregnancy can bring and the shock of learning she was expecting. The powers of the Archangel also have the tendency to shut off or amplify emotion, for the sake of its purpose. When she left the Lookout to head home to call you, her only concern was for you. We couldn't get to her to calm down long enough to let us patch her up."

Vegeta remembered her straggling form stumbling into the dark kitchen, his anger dwarfing his concern, his only priority saying his piece. Hurting her. His master, his injured pride.

It had been his injured pride that sealed the deal with Piccolo for revenge on Red Ribbon. It had been his injured pride that had been the undoing of his only meaningful relationship. How much could have been prevented if he had just taken a step back from his indignity and let her tell her side of the story? He could have drawn his contract out long enough to see his son born, long enough to take on Piccolo in Hell's Court.

Vegeta looked away. For the first time since he was a boy, he felt tears stinging his eyes. "I failed her," he asserted, his voice cracking almost imperceptibly.

"You're human," Kami smiled reassuringly. "You will make mistakes, over and over again. It's about the only constant a mortal can rely on. Choices will be given to you time and time again as an opportunity to learn humility and graciousness from them."

"Hurry up with the sermon," Piccolo groused from behind them.

"Yes, well, I'm giving you the opportunity to visit Mr. Matsumoto and deliver him a personal message, from you...and from Heaven, unofficially." Kami's eyes hardened, and Vegeta realized he must have been quite formidable in his day. "This is for no other reason that that."

Vegeta stood straight, fingering the short sword at his belt, a smirk twisting up his face.

"Well then." He turned to Piccolo. "Do I have your blessing?"

Piccolo's hard glare softened momentarily and he snorted. "If it's a butchering of the damned you're after, I'm certainly not going to stop you. Not when it so clearly advances Hell's agenda." The two of them shared a smirk, for a moment a brutal harmony between them.

"Through that door, son. I will collect you tomorrow at Hell's second bell." Kami's arm outstretched, pointing to the door behind him.

Vegeta nodded, once more glancing at Piccolo and Kami, checking for duplicity or ill will. Finding none, he advanced toward the door, steps growing bolder as he approached. His hand grasped the knob and he pulled it with grim efficiency, the undisputed Right Hand of Hell as he entered the red light beyond. Blue fire licked up his body like static before he shut the door behind him.

Kami looked at the closed door resolutely, and then turned to Piccolo with a knowing smile.

"So what are you going to do with the rice cooker, Ma Junior?"

Piccolo growled and headed towards the back exit where Snake Way loomed winding through Heaven's celestial clouds and beyond. Kami followed him slowly, a smug smile refusing to leave his green face.

"Is it because you have other plans than being the Great Demon King?"

"Stay out of my business, old man," Piccolo retorted as he leapt onto the wall, his leather coat billowing behind him for a second as he stood and stared out at the abyss in front of him that hid Hell's landscape. He turned his head to regard Kami with his own smug smile, his red plaid flannel collar bright against his emerald throat. "And, if so, you shouldn't be so self righteous about it. My old man is a lot more trouble than I am."

Piccolo let out a silent chortle and then regarded Kami's wizened, hunched form with a moment of solemnity. "I've heard you have your own prodigy waiting in the wings."

Kami nodded once, slowly.

"Let them figure it out then. I'm tired of this life. Maybe you should get some rest while you can, too." His voice roughened. "Send Vegeta my way when he's through. And be prompt tomorrow. What kind of example are you setting, anyway."

Piccolo stepped off the wall and fell towards Hell, and Kami stared at the place he had been just seconds ago contemplatively.

"It just goes to show I was right about you all along. You're not so bad, Junior."

* * *

 

The breeze was a warm caress as Vegeta made his way slowly down the steps of the atrium on the Lookout, adjusting the tops of his gloves and surveying the garden in front of him. The last time was the only time he had been up here, and it had been dark, and he had been rushing. Now he could clearly see the orchards, the almost labyrinthine tangle of rose bushes, small plots of vegetables interspersed here and there. Vegeta made his way rigidly down the walkway and into the small jungle, passing by cherry tomatoes and vining green beans curling around stakes as the walkway turned into mislaid stones, leading deeper into the fragrant jumble. Kami had instructed him to take the path in order to find Bulma, and sure enough, he soon began to hear the soft hum of nearby voices drifting on the breeze. Vegeta's pace slowed even further as he recognized one of them, her striking, calm tenor in response to another's—Popo's. His heart thumped wildly. It drew him in like a fish on a line, and he found himself breaking through lavender bushes, the soft sunlight dappling under a few birch trees that clustered around a wrought iron table where Bulma and Popo stood, sorting through tea leaves and murmuring. She had her back to him, but he could see her nimble fingers tearing leaves and tossing them into a wicker basket, her thick unruly hair in a careless bun at her neck. Although in loose jeans and an open gray hoodie, he could instantly recognize the difference in her shape, and as he began to run his eyes over her to uncover it's secrets, she turned her head in his direction, her blue eyes wide in her pale round face, her body twisting just enough with her for him to catch the swell of belly under her white t shirt. Her hands ceased their movements and time froze as she took in the sight of him, and he absorbed her rounder, wider form under the dappled light filtered between yellow birch leaves.

Bulma dropped the tea leaves and walked away.

Vegeta watched her disappear into the hyacinth and looked at Popo in question, who had turned to him and stood, watching him.

Popo's normally impassable face tightened and then softened as he wiped his hands on a small rag and then clasped them in front of himself. "She is not herself," his sad voice carried to him from across the bucolic, green expanse. "Kami invited you here because he is worried about her."

Vegeta nodded gravely and solemnly followed the path she had taken into the vegetation.

He found her sitting on a park bench in the shade, encircled by mimosas, her hands fidgeting in her lap. He came up from behind her and slowly eased himself onto the park bench, giving her space and notice, half expecting her to bolt again.

She crossed her arms protectively over her chest and turned her head away from him.

He tried to keep his cool but cast anxious glances at her, waiting for her to say something.

"Why are you here?" Her voice was hard but her body posture was contradicting her, strung tight with nervousness.

"Piccolo and Kami allowed me to visit. Do you want me to leave?"

She turned to him finally, her rounded face pinched, her eyes troubled. "I just wasn't expecting you, is all."

Vegeta sensed her skittishness and picked a strategy, relaxing against the bench, slumping slightly and resting his arm on the back of the bench behind her casually. "It's beautiful up here. One would hardly know it was late September." He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she attempted to regain her footing on safe ground.  
"Yes. Well. Time kind of stands still here. The weather is always mild, and Popo takes full advantage of it," she said matter of factly, gesturing around her at the garden.  
"There is no sunlight in Hell," Vegeta informed her conversationally, closing his eyes and resting his head against the top of the bench. "The sunlight feels good."  
He could feel her watching him, taking him in when she thought he didn't notice. He cracked his eyes open a hair and smirked as her eyes roamed over the defined ridges of his clothes and she blushed, letting out a breath of air from her nose and looking away.

"How are you feeling?" Vegeta asked curtly.

"Fine. We're fine," she said dismissively.

"Uncomfortable yet?"

Bulma opened her mouth to make a smart aleck comment when she realized he was asking specifically about her pregnancy, and relaxed fractionally.

"I'm getting there. They say the second trimester is the easiest, and it has been for me. None of the exhaustion and queasiness of the first trimester. I'm headed into the third soon and I don't know that it's going to treat me well."

"You're lucky to have this, then," Vegeta gestured around him. "A veritable paradise, here. No demands from your job, no extreme weather, no uncomfortable obstetrics visits...only soft soil under your swollen feet and everywhere the quiet of things growing."

She finally looked up at him then with wide eyes, wondering if he was making fun of her.

"Is that why you haven't left yet?"

And there it was. Her face crumpled into a frown. "What do you care."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Bulma. Why are you still here."

She shivered at the sound of her name from his lips. "What am I supposed to be doing, huh?" She glared at him, the most direct attention she'd given him yet. "Everyone keeps saying that, but what am I supposed to be doing?" Her voice thickened with tears that she quickly dashed from her eyes. "Sorry, pregnancy hormones."

"You don't have to hide from me. I just can't understand why the fiery little woman I know is up here in the clouds hiding from life, which used to excite her, letting things pass her by."

Bulma jumped up and began pacing back and forth in front of him, deciding on going on the offensive and turning to stand in front of him, her belly in his vision. "The Bulma you knew is no more! Why can't you guys understand that? I'm not Blue Menace anymore. I have no purpose anymore. I'm the least important person on this island. I'm just a...an oven...for a child...you don't want," she choked, head falling into her palms.

Vegeta stood quickly and put his hands on her hips, guiding her to sit back down on his lap.

"No, I'm too big," she protested weakly.

Vegeta snorted. "No, you're not. You're tiny as ever. You've just got these mouthwatering curves you're hiding under these clothes."

Bulma looked at him with surprise, unaware when Vegeta turned her and plopped her down on his lap.

"Woman, you're too strong to be falling to pieces." He shushed her when she began to protest. "No, listen to me for a moment. So you're fully human now. So what. It doesn't change the fact that you are a very special lady. You have amazing people surrounding you, caring for you, because they like you. And before you give me that horse shit about not knowing who you are, think about where you've come from. You withstood the death of your parents, the acquisition of their legacy, a bunch of deplorable assholes who call themselves foster parents, and the reward of not one, not two, but three Ph.D's and a tenured position before I was even out of law school. You were so strong, you made Kami stand up and take notice, and you know how much flies over his head." That earned a sniffling giggle from her. "You are so amazing that Kami gave you a gift. A gift to fulfill a purpose in life, to save a lot of people and to right an enormous injustice in our world. And you did. You did it almost single handedly. Believe me, I was there, I know." He smiled when she smiled. "You're absolutely awe inspiring, Bulma Briefs, not because you were the Blue Menace, not because you were Chosen, but because you're you. That's why you were Chosen in the first place. Because you're you."

She leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder and he felt her body rack with tremors. He ran his hands up and down her arms supportively. "I didn't fall in love with Blue Menace. I fell in love with the woman inside her suit. Kami gave me that gift. The gift of you. I'm sorry I messed it up."

She buried herself closer to him and he relished the feel of her, the smell of her hair under his chin, and his hands moved over her slowly, consideringly.

"I'm sorry, stupid pregnancy mood swings—"

"Shut up, Bulma, you know you don't have to play games with me. You don't have to apologize for crying. You went a whole fucking lifetime being the strong one. You've deserve a chance to cry." Vegeta tilted her head up so he could look her in the eyes, their breaths mingling. "My only concern is why you don't feel you have to be strong for our son."

"I just keep thinking this is a dream I'll wake up from," she murmured, inches from his face, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

He smoothed the loose hair from her face. "I wish it were. But it's not. Life keeps going, with or without us. Take a break. You deserve it. But then do what you're so damned good at—getting back up on your horse. Although I can't be around, you have another man to take care of."

She nodded, resting her head back under his chin and breathing him in. They sat there for a long moment, until Vegeta's hard voice broke the silence.

"I need to tell you something, Bulma. And in the spirit of being open with each other, it's something you may not want to discuss. It's about...that last night."

She looked up at him gingerly.

His face darkened. "I had a little visit with Yamcha Matsumoto yesterday." Her eyes widened, shifting between panic and fear of rejection. "As the Right Hand of Hell, I have the ability to read my subjects memories to determine compatible punishments." He didn't mention the heads up he had from Kami, not knowing if Bulma knew Kami knew and not wanting to cause a rift between them. "Bulma Briefs," his eyes held hers with mesmerizing darkness. "I had fun cutting him up into tiny pieces and feeding him to the Hounds of Hell." His fingers gripped her chin, willing her to understand. "The denizens of Hell can't die, they're already far past that landmark. Do you understand?" Bulma's deep blue eyes absorbed the impact of what he was saying.

"You mean...you mean...he's only...piles of dog shit now?"

Vegeta nodded gravely.

Bulma laughed sharply, and then squeezed him. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Bulma. If I could have done it differently that night, if I would have just trusted you, everything would be different..." He wouldn't have Yamcha's memories of Bulma under him haunting him at night.

"But what about your contract?"

He paused, and then nodded modestly. "There is that." He chewed over his next words carefully. "I had planned on neutralizing my contract with Piccolo by two different means. One is in a realm I have some grasp of: Celestial Court. I was going to argue that the fine print clause 869-B didn't dictate the length of my time on Earth before retracting back to Hell once Piccolo had his rice cooker back. I had a solid case, but not indefensible. Believe me when I say Hell has the best lawyers, so not even my experience in law was something I could bet on. My other option was, simply, to challenge him in front of witnesses and kill him."

"But he's incapable of dying," Bulma reminded him.

"Not true. Piccolo isn't any more immortal than Kami. They are of a race that has a longer lifespan. Long enough to be trusted as guardians of realms. Long enough to call us humans mortals and be so distant from the short, topsy turvy life that often ends at a drop of a hat. Kami and Piccolo are too powerful to be ended so easily...making them convenient celestial custodians. I didn't expect that path to work out," he admitted roughly. "I was willing to try anything to be with you, even if it wasn't in a traditional way...with me being the Lord of Hell, for instance. I never expected to fall in love. I made my pact one hard night with Piccolo in a bar and I never looked back...that is, until there was you. Tell me, Bulma, how could I say no to you? How could I reject us and move forward as if nothing was lost? You might ask why did I even let myself fall, and I ask, how could I not? I couldn't. I wanted it all. I thought there was a chance I could have it all. So I took it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were pursuing Yamcha? Because you wanted to protect me. Because you wanted to take a stand for me."

“But, you said the case you were working on was to support me—"

"It was. It still is. In a moment of weakness, I might have had Nappa draw up any necessary papers to separate our property, but my will still stands. You are still listed as my only beneficiary. You could go to the West City Bank, right now, and ask for all my life's savings and get it. Get you guys a house, a car. My car is in storage, if you'd rather have it, although it's not entirely family friendly. You wouldn't hurt for anything. You wouldn't have to work or cross paths with anyone you didn't want to. You could have solitude, if that's what you're wanting—"

"I don't want solitude," she lashed out. "I don't want to be on Earth at all."

"Why?" He vented.

"What's the point? There's no one, nothing for me on Earth except pain—"

"And up here, the pain is better because you can keep it inside?"

Her mouth parted to stutter a rebuttal, but a tiny fist pounded from within, shaking both of them form their argument. They both looked down. Another thump resounded between them, one Vegeta clearly felt.

"May I?" He asked her roughly, his hand hovering over her belly.

"Of course," she whispered.

Rethinking it, he briskly pulled off his gloves, tossed them on the bench, and then carefully placed his hands on her belly, feeling a little bit like a seer over a crystal ball. She gently moved his hands to her right side, and there, he could feel something harder under the surface of her taut stomach. And, like that, it moved to escape him. He let out a tiny little laugh, and Bulma gazed at him with adoration.

Time stopped for them as Vegeta moved his hands again and again, seeking it out to capture it only for the brat to slink away and tease him with a sharp thump that left Bulma a little breathless.

"Do you think this is a game? Vegeta asked, and Bulma giggled.

"He's practicing his 'arguendo,' aren't you proud, Vegeta Ouji?"

He placed his hand on the hard lump of a foot before it kicked and once again and slunk out of sight and touch.

He froze Bulma with a teary stare. "Very," he whispered.

He stood and wrapped her in his arms, one palm resting on the swell of her belly. "You have to spoil him for me where I cannot," he whispered in her ear gruffly. "That goes for you, too. I don't know when I will see you again. Can you promise me that?"

She looked into his eyes with the fearless, committed eyes of a saint.

She rubbed her cheek against his own and inhaled him in, arms wrapping around his thick waist tightly.

Finally, she nodded.

Kami, Popo, Dende, and Eighteen stood at the edge of the mimosas, watching them embrace silently, Bulma's cat winding around their feet as it purred. The last lightning bugs of the season were just sending out their blinking invitations to mate, and, reluctantly, Kami cleared his throat.

"It's time to go, Vegeta."

 

XIII. "Gimme Shelter"

  
Kami awoke, his sweat chilling him in the cool night air, Popo's warm back against his. Carefully throwing off the sheets, Kami stepped into his slippers and shrugged on his robe, shuffling to the pane-less window and letting his eyes roam over the gray cloud cover that blanketed the sky as far as he could see, the late gibbous moon's light glancing off the tops of the careening cumulus like the crests of waves of an immense sea.

He searched outside himself for the feeling that had woken him form his sleep.

At first, nothing. Then, there it was again: the slight distortion and reorganization of power, an energy he felt very deeply, as it was, literally, his other half.

"So, he's gone and done it," Kami murmured in the dark. "Now what?"

* * *

 

Bulma ran her hands across the wall as she tread down the hallway and into the sunny kitchen, finding Eighteen leaning against the counter munching on a a bag of chips.

Bulma's eyebrow winged, and she tried to hide a smirk and failed. "I thought you were going to the store to pick up groceries, not junk food," she teased her.

"You should know better than to send me to a grocery store. Eating is optional for me and I'm forever thin and young. What, pray tell, is going to stop me from eating nothing but donuts?" The woman's dry tone suggested she was baiting Bulma, and Bulma knew it, knocking her gently out of the way with her hip to peer inside the cabinets and fridge. To her relief, there were veggies, dairy and meat, and she glanced back and saw a loaf of bread on the counter. Just as she closed the refrigerator, she popped it back open and sighed. "Is is hot in here?" She groaned.

Eighteen looked at her critically. "Asks the pregnant lady to the robot. No, it's not. So where are we going to get furniture?"

Bulma closed the fridge door with a soft thud and turned around, leaning against the fridge and taking in the empty town house which still smelled like fresh paint and carpet cleaner.

Another sigh escaped her. "I don't know. I don't know that I care. I just want somewhere to sleep."

"You're going to want somewhere to sit down really soon, I can feel it," Eighteen droned, and Bulma smiled, breaking out a bottle of wine, a box of crackers and a block of sharp cheese.

"Well then. Let's drink on it and then make a decision."

Eighteen watched her expertly slice through the white cheddar and frowned. "You're not supposed to be drinking."

Bulma scowled down at the cheese before placing it on a paper towel and biting into a slice. "I know that," she chided. "It's not alcoholic."

Eighteen giggled and popped a cracker into her mouth. "Slow your roll, mama bear. You'll be able to drown your sorrows this time next month," she teased through a mouth full of cracker.

"Hmph," Bulma replied over a mouthful of cheese, popping the cork and drinking the wine straight from the bottle just as the doorbell chimed.

"I really need to buy some dishes," she mumbled as she waddled to the front door, forgetting the bottle of wine clutched in her hand. She saw two figures through the clouded panes of glass, expecting her overly cheerfully landlord to be standing at the door.

Upon opening the door, she stood blinking at the shivering figures of Nappa and Radditz, who each gave her sheepish smiles, albeit Radditz's was much toothier. She noticed Nappa's oversized truck on the sidewalk and frowned curiously.

"Hello," she greeted them uncertainly.

"Bulma, you're huge," Radditz pointed out tactlessly.

Bulma leveled him with a deadpan stare and turned to Nappa, the more intelligible of the bunch.

"We come bearing gifts," Nappa said, smiling collectedly.

She returned it with her own half smile. The last time they had seen each other, she had been bent over Yamcha's hand while Nappa glared daggers at her right before he made the call to Vegeta that would change their life.

"What?"

"We got Vegeta's stuff out of storage. And yours, too. It's in the back of Nappa's truck. Just tell me where to put it!" Radditz informed her cheerfully.

"His-mine-what?"

"I put Vegeta's stuff into storage when I realized he wasn't coming back," Nappa explained soberly. "Someone put your stuff into storage and even signed out of your renter's contract. Some woman." He shrugged.

Bulma stood gaping.

"Oohhhh-kaayyy," she intoned. "But how did you guys know I was here—"

"Hey boys," Eighteen's clear voice drifted from behind her as she effortlessly held up a large case of beer. "Have a beer with us and then we'll start unpacking."

Bulma looked at Eighteen like she had grown a second head.

"Hell yes!" Radditz exclaimed, moving to intercept a frosty bottle from Eighteen's possession. As he popped the cap, he surprised Bulma by putting his arm around her and squeezing her to his side. "You look good, B. Hey, you're not supposed to be drinking, are you?"

Bulma, stunned, looked down at the wine bottle in her hand. "It's not alcoholic."

"I was gonna say. I don't know much about birthin' babies, but I remember the time I tried to take my wife out drinking when she was pregnant, she nearly blacked my eye..."  
He moved inside, flirting innocently with Eighteen down the hall and out of the cold.

Nappa and Bulma stood awkwardly in front of one another.

Slowly, he held his thick arm out, offering his hand from his wool coat. Bulma took it, her hand small inside his own, and he pulled her into a gentle hug. Her head barely topped his abdomen.

"Vegeta would be proud, Bulma."

Tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffed, hoping Nappa thought her nose was running from the chilly weather.

"You're the woman he always wanted. The woman he always deserved. He sends his love."

Bulma broke down into sobs, then, and Nappa held her gently as the clouds began to send flurries to meet the ground.

* * *

 

Bulma pulled out another cookie sheet from the oven and licked her lips as she listened with half an ear to Dende chatter to the cat. Eighteen was due back from a date at anytime (with a guy she had admitted to Bulma was 'more muscles than brain matter, just the way I like them'), and she had to get the snickerdoodles in before Eighteen returned and wolfed down all her chocolate chip cookies. Her back ached and her feet were fat and numb and her belly seemed to protest with a sharp cramp every time she struggled to bend to put a cookie sheet in the oven, but she was just too full of energy to take a break.

The radio played quietly in the corner of the kitchen, some obnoxious pop station Dende had insisted on listening to. She was just glad the Christmas season was over. There was only so much "Here Comes Santa Claus" she could take before someone got a radio thrown at them.

"Dende, do you like snickerdoodles, thumbprints, or chocolate chip the best?" She asked the young boy without looking away from spooning batter onto the hot cookie sheet.  
"Um, I've never had a cookie," he replied innocently, stroking the cat's thick black fur with pleasure.

"What?" Bulma looked up at him, pausing in the middle of dropping batter onto the greased pan. "Never had a cookie? Kid, where have you been?"

"I was raised in a boarding school with other monks," he explained apologetically, "until Guru decided I should tutor under Kami."

"Oh?" She replied with interest. "That sounds like a pretty humdrum upbringing."

"I learned lots of things there. Stuff like healing, and the Laws of Nature..."

"Very humdrum." Bulma smiled at him.

This was the first time Dende had visited her by himself; with hindsight, she could tell he was just a little intimidated by her. She was Kami's chosen pupil, after all, but now that they were getting to know each other, she regretted her closeted resentment of the adolescent. He had had no one his entire life, with only a stoic education to call his own and a cheerless castle to call home. She was also the first human he'd ever know, and the first pregnant one, for sure. She smiled down at the last batch of cookies before sliding them into the oven. The kid had never even had a cookie before. She felt a possessive, sympathetic tug at her heart, and she scraped off the baked cookies with a spatula, breaking off a piece of one and holding it out to him between her fingers.

"Try one, Dende," she encouraged him.

He stared at it timidly.

"They're delicious. You'll wonder how you ever went without."

Sensing his inner struggle, she popped it into his mouth, and the boy's eyes widened.

"You're on Earth, now," she smiled sweetly. "It requires some degree of daring to be here."

She watched him as he chewed the morsel with relish, and she wiped her hands free of crumbs on a dish towel.

Another cramp skittered up her belly, and she rubbed it out absently. The last month had been full of them; she wasn't concerned. Her body was gearing up for labor, and, after nine months of waiting, she certainly wasn't going to convince it not to take its time.

"Excuse me, Dende, I'll be right back," she said softly, making her way down the short hall to her bedroom and into the master bathroom.

She pulled her stretchy maternity pants down her hips and settled very carefully onto the cool ceramic toilet, feeling urgently like she had to pee and yet having to force it out. Well, there was thirty five pounds of baby stuff resting on her bladder, she supposed.

After a small trickle, she huffed and went to pull up her underwear when she noticed a thin, glossy liquid coating the crotch of her panties. Squinting, she poked it. It didn't look or feel like her normal pregnancy discharge she had become unfortunately accustomed to. She tugged her underwear and pants back up around her hips and waddled back out to the kitchen where Dende sat, tapping his foot and humming to the song on the radio. The cat perched on the kitchen table stiffly as it tried to determine whether Bulma was a threat to its position or not. Before it could decide, Bulma scooped it off the table and bent to drop him softly on the floor.

"You know you're not supposed to be up there, kitty—Ow."

Bulma let the cat go a little too soon and straightened, her hand against her side as it fell onto its paws with a thunk and scurried off. "I'm achy today," she commented absently.

"You're in the first stage of labor," Dende remarked casually, licking chocolate off his long, lean green fingers. "Your amniotic sac has ruptured and your contractions are about five minutes apart."

"What?!" She shrieked, startling the cat and causing poor Dende to jump in his seat. "You knew that all this time and didn't think to say anything?"

Dende blushed as she chastised him and lowered his hands to his lap. "I thought you knew. I thought that's who you were making all these cookies for!"

"How would I know, I've never done this before!"

"I haven't either!" He wailed.

She let out a breath of air between pursed lips and planted her hands on her hips in thought. "I'm sorry, Dende, that's just a lot to take in at the moment. How am I going to get to the hospital?" She questioned nervously, glancing at the door. "I better call Eighteen."

"Is there anyway I can help?"

"Is there anything you can do?"

"I don't know." He fidgeted. "I could...check to see that he's not unusually stressed. I could listen in to see how far you're dilated."

"The doctor said I've been at a one for weeks," she griped thoughtfully.

"Well, that's likely to have changed with all the contractions you've had the last few days. Their function is to open your cervix to allow room for the baby to pass—"

"You sure act like an expert for never having met a woman," she snapped, and then sighed. "Once again, I'm sorry. Will you check on him?" She asked weakly as the event began to close in on her.

Dende hopped off the stool and approached her carefully, placing his soft hands against her protruding, tight belly.

"He's fine. His heart rate is slightly elevated but that's normal during labor..."

Bulma let out a relieved sigh through her nose. "Anything else?"

Dende looked up at her. "You're dilated to a three...working up to a four."

Bulma's eyes widened.

"This is really it, then, huh." She regarded him with intensity.

Dende nodded. "Yes. You'll be a mother soon."

Bulma released a little self satisfied smile at Dende's words, and then moved to pick up her cell phone. She dialed Eighteen from her speed dial but hung up with frustration when she got her brisk, cool voicemail. She mashed redial and pressed the phone against her ear with her shoulder, worrying her dish towel in her hands.

This time when she got Eighteen's voicemail, she left a curt message. "Hey there, you trollop. I'm in labor. Where are you?"

Bulma hung up the phone and held it out in front of her in thought, her brows dipping.

Slowly, as another contraction racked her belly, this time squeezing her back, too, she dialed another number, and waited.

"Hello?" A deep gruff voice answered, the sounds of dishes clanking and voices raised, drowning him out.

"Hello? Nappa? It's Bulma. I have a favor to ask you." She waited for his rejection.

"What is it?"

"Ummmmm...I'm in labor, but my ride to the hospital bailed. Is there anyway you could take me?"

After a pause, she heard a harsh chuckle and then a sniff. "Yeah, I can be there in about twenty minutes. Can he hold out that long?"

"Who? Oh, yes, yeah, I think so."

"Okay. And Bulma?"

"Yes?" She asked politely.

"How many times did Vegeta tell you to get a damned car."

The line disconnected with a click.

She scowled at the phone and then dragged her feet over to her purse. "What does he know, anyway," she mumbled.

"What?" Called Dende.

"Nothing." She raised her voice. "Dende, can you go tell Kami where I'm headed for me, if he doesn't know already?"

Dende cocked his head to the side, staring at the wall, and then shook his head remorsefully. "He knows, Bulma. He wants me to stay with you."

"A delivery room is no place for a young boy," she lectured. "You'll see all sorts of stuff you can't unsee," she informed him.

Dende paused again before meeting her gaze nervously. "I don't think he will take no for an answer, Miss Bulma!"

"Well I hope you know what you're doing Kami," she called out to the ceiling. "You're going to scar this poor boy. Well, Dende," she relinquished, "I'm just going to grab my coat and my hospital bag." Her voice tightened and she massaged her back as she puttered out of the room.

"Miss Bulma?"

"Yes?" He heard her call from the bedroom.

"What's that smell?" He frowned, trying to detect the unfamiliar source.

He heard her steps race back down the hall, and she swept into the room before throwing open the oven door. Smoke billowed out, burning their eyes, the acrid smell of burnt cookies in their noses.

"Ugh! My cookies!"

* * *

 

Vegeta sprinted down the hospital hall, trying to button up his shirt as he ran. He had used the nearby bathroom of a burger joint as a portal from Hell, barely having time to strip off his suit and into more appropriate khakis and shirt. He didn't even remember doing it, frankly. All he knew is he was running across the street through the icy rain as horns blared at him and into the emergency ward of the West City Centerpoint Hospital.

"Excuse me," he snapped at a nurse walking down the hall. "Where's the maternity ward?"

"It's on the fifth floor, there's an elevator down the hallways—"

"No time!" He called as he leapt up the stairs two by two, ignoring the stiffness in his knees as he did so. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered darkly as he took the last flight of stairs and burst through the doors.

"Sir, you need to have a visitors pass—"

"Where is Bulma Briefs?"

"Are you on her guest list?"

"I don't give a damn if I'm on the guest list," he seethed, fixing her with a black stare. "You better damn well let me into see her, now."

The nurse jumped to work frantically through her computer screen before calling, "Room 534!"

Vegeta took off.

"It's on the right!" The nurse hollered.

"Right," he muttered before turning around and racing the opposite way down the hall.

He nearly ran past it.

Taking a step back, he threw open the door to room 534.

And was instantly greeted by a thin wail, nurses looking up at him in surprise as they finished wiping him down and swaddling him tightly in a small white blanket.  
He moved inside without his own volition, stopping over the baby in the nurses arms.

"Vegeta?" Bulma's tired voice came drifting over to him, and he looked over, finding her sitting up in the hospital bed, pale and clammy, the hospital gown hanging loosely off one shoulder.

He glanced between them, frozen.

"Is this your son?" The nurse asked him.

He nodded briskly, reaching out to touch the newborns chubby, petal soft cheeks, when, to his surprise, the nurse handed him over to him. Vegeta reached out and was surprised by how light he was as she placed him in his arms, how the swaddling made him so easy to hold. The newborn made sucking motions with its glossy pink lips, his cloudy eyes blinking away the glare of the new world.

Vegeta looked up at Bulma and met her smile.

"Who dressed you today? Piccolo?" She teased as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed delicately.

"Very funny," he replied with half a brain, watching his son's face settle into a restful composure, testing that he was still breathing with his finger unconsciously and feeling relief only when he felt the tiny warm gust of breath against the inside of his finger.

He felt her fingers trace his back as he heard the door open once again, and glanced up as he saw three figures enter hesitantly, shadows against the fluorescents of the hallway, when he realized it was the green kid from the Lookout and his oldest friends.

"Oh, shit, look whose here," Radditz proclaimed, dropping his coat on the nurses station, missing the nurses repugnant glance.

They took in Vegeta's wondering, soft gaze and settled in a half circle around him.

"How'd it go, B?" Radditz asked, smiling.

She smiled back; she couldn't help it, Radditz' smile was just so contagious, reminding her eerily of Goku's. "As well as it could. Five hours of labor, no drugs. A few minutes of pushing, and there he was, purple hair and all."

"A helluva lot better than my wife's, then. She was in labor thirty six hours before they decided she was a good candidate for surgery."

"What?" Vegeta frowned and pushed the cap off his son's forehead. Sure enough, fine tufts of lavender hair greeted him in disarray.

Bulma laughed out loud. "Surprise! He's a throwback! That's why I named him Trunks," she said, easing her way carefully up to lean against him and over his arm to run her fingers along the curves of her son's crumpled ear. Vegeta caught her eye, too overwhelmed to speak. "After my father. And yours. Trunks Vegeta Ouji."

"Trunks," he murmured.

"Shall we break out the cigars and the brandy?" Radditz grinned and pulled four cigars from his pocket. "Um, er, sorry, kid. Looks like we're one short."

"Dende doesn't need a cigar, Radditz, he's eleven," Bulma chided him goodnaturedly.

"Congratulations, Vegeta," Nappa said, holding his hand out for him to shake, Radditz following suit. Vegeta juggled his son so he could snake a hand out to shake with, and he felt Bulma's hand rest at the back of his neck, her head lean against his shoulder companionably.

"Congratulations, dad," she whispered in his ear, and he looked up and returned her watery smile.

* * *

 

"What do you want?" Kami asked, his voice catching the wind and drifting from gust to gust to the figure against the moon, his cape billowing and snapping behind him.

"I've come to congratulate you, grandpa," the original Demon King crooned, floating at the edge of the Lookout.

Kami sniffed. "State your business, Mao Senior."

"My son has relinquished his position," Piccolo Sr. informed him curtly. "He is no longer Lord of Hell."

"I knew that already. I felt you arrive once he figured out how to open that cooker. Just what purpose does it serve to inform me of something I'm already partial to knowing? Or did you forget my power level transcends yours?"

"I'm a restless spirit, brother. I just can't seem to get any satisfaction down in the confines of Hell. Might have to jump ship...move upstairs." He leered down at him. "Tell me, how does it feel to be grandfather to a child of Hell?"

"Much better than standing here wasting my time with you."

"Can't say I've missed you, Kami."

"I wouldn't cause trouble if I were you, Senior. You've been stuck in that appliance for a long time. This is a new generation. My progeny and Piccolo's protege just recently toppled an empire even we peacemakers couldn't undermine. I would not set myself against them, if I were you."

"Oh, shut up, old man. Bleeding heart martial artists are no match for me-"

"Your son let you out precisely because you are no match for them. You are no match for this generation. You have no power here. No one fears you here. You're a doddering old fool who can easily be contained by a well known Containment Wave. Piccolo freed you to put the burden of Hell on your shoulders, not for any sentimental desires towards terror and chaos. He knows your incapable. If you ever tried to cause trouble, the Blue Menace and Black Vengeance would be there to put a stop to it before it ever began. Your days are over."

"You'll regret your words," he ground out, before turning and diving into the thin cloud cover, as Kami watched his descent with tight lines pulling at his face.

"Dende is not ready for Piccolo Sr.," he sighed.

* * *

Vegeta watched the slender blonde warily as she leaned over a sudoku puzzle and tried to figure out where she had gone. She pushed the puzzle away and sat up, looking the essence of a bored and over privileged teenager.

"I don't have the patience for these things. Bulma has been trying to get me into them and it's just not going to work."

Vegeta leaned back against the short sofa being careful not to jostle the sleeping newborn and snorted. "Why are you still here again?"

Eighteen gave him a slow cheshire grin and sat her chin on her fist. "Does it bother you that Bulma and I are-" her eyes widened to emphasize each word -"best friends?"

"I don't know what she sees in you."

"Maybe it's more like what I'm willing for her to see me do," she purred.

Vegeta's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Maybe she just needed someone to keep her warm at night—"

"You're going too far, you dysfunctional toaster."

Eighteen snickered and pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked her messages.

"Nappa got home alright," she mentioned.

Vegeta's eyes could have shot lasers at the oblivious young woman.

"He gave you his number?"

"Nah, I found it in Bulma's phone when I was trying to get him to bring her stuff over, only to learn you'd already called him. He's alright, though. I like Radditz more, but, well, he's married," she sneered.

"You're a plague on my life," he grit out.

She winked at him as she rose from the chair and stretched her long limbs, glancing at Bulma's sleeping form under the thin hospital blankets, her round shoulder and mess of curls poking out from under it.

"Tell her to text me when she wakes up. I'm going home to sit in front of the tv and eat the thumbprint cookies she made." She yawned.

"Wait—she made thumbprints?" Vegeta seemed to realize he was drooling and hid it up with a scoff. "Careful where you place your head, you might fuck up your reception," he growled.

There was a sharp rap on the door and it creaked open, a shadow figure in the low lighting of the sleeping woman's room.

"Isn't this lovely," Piccolo Jr. drawled, closing the door behind him with a smirk.

"I can only assume if you're at a hospital you're here with a sinister ulterior motive," said Vegeta as he readjusted Trunks on his chest.

"Not so." He smiled. "Unless you count the Dark Lord of Hell making a friendly visit at a maternity ward depraved. How does it feel? Lemme guess—sunshine, glitter, a unicorn or two?"

"Much better than unicorns and glitter."

"Powerful statement." He threw himself into the chair Eighteen had just vacated. "What if I told you it could only get better."

"Then I would tell you you truly are a master of deceit."

Piccolo snorted softly and grabbed at the book of sudoku before grazing through it with distaste and throwing it back on the table. "Ain't nobody got time for sudoku."

Eighteen smiled from the corner of the bed.

Piccolo looked up sharply, changing his tone. "You're relieved, solider. You're done. Pack your shit and get out of my hair. Better yet," he reached into his pocket and tossed a capsule onto the table, where it rolled and bumped to a stop against the puzzle book.

"This isn't a very funny joke." He stared icily at the green man.

"It's not a joke. Your contract with me has been annulled. You're no longer my right hand man...As I am no longer Lord of Hell." He looked up at him with a sharp smirk. "Still bros, though, right?"

Vegeta just stared at him.

"I'm done?"

Piccolo nodded, spinning a ringer on his finger.

"What the hell happened while I was gone?"

"I let the proverbial cat out of the bag. The cat being my father. The bag being a Hello Kitty rice maker he had been magically sealed in," he revealed with disdain. "The Turtle Hermit sure had a sense of humor to seal him in a girls kitchen appliance."

"Would you have rather it been an Easy Bake Oven?" Eighteen quipped, drawing Piccolo's attention to her for the first time.

"It wouldn't hurt my feelings none." His eyes quickly ran over Eighteen's leggy form. "And you are?"

"A pest," Vegeta answered for her.

"Vegeta doesn't like you?"

"Only because he has no sense of humor." She gave him an enigmatic smile from under her lashes.

"You're quite right. The man's a dud." He pulled out a thin black cigarette and lit it with a snap of his fingers, sucking in the aromatic tobacco and blowing out a cloud of ebon-gray smoke.

"You can't smoke in here," Vegeta said indifferently.

Eighteen couldn't take her eyes off him.

"Ah, that reminds me. Your powers are gone. You're human now. So have fun with that."

"Tough luck," Eighteen smiled smugly at Vegeta, who barely spared her a glance of loathing.

Piccolo's smirk grew and he finally gave Vegeta a look of genuine good will. "I'll be around." He turned to Eighteen, who stood flippantly at the foot of the bed. "Where you headed."

She shrugged, smiling coyly, for the first time seeing genuinely excited. "Where you gonna take me?"

"I've got half a mind to celebrate my departure from Hell in style. Care to fuck shit up with me on this lovely winter night?"

Eighteen's smile grew and she sauntered towards the door. "I'm already causing trouble," she said as she slid out the door, leaving it cracked for him.

"Where'd you find her?" Piccolo stuck his thumb behind him before taking another long drag on his cigarette.

"Bulma found her. Guarding the Commander of Red Ribbon. Until she marooned for no other reason than she was bored. For some reason, Bulma saved her life and brought her home like a stray cat. I hope she gets the hint to leave soon."

"Don't worry, Pops, I'll have her out all night." A smarmy smile curved around Piccolo's face and he turned to leave, putting his cigarette out on the door jamb before turning around once more. "Congrats, man." He nodded before closing the door softly, and shortly after, he heard Eighteen's laughter echo down the hall.

Vegeta gave the closed door an arrested look before glancing back at Bulma, who was lying on her side facing him with a small smile on her face.

"How long have you been up?"

"I just woke up," she murmured sleepily, gazing at the bundle in his arms.

"He's been out the whole time you've been asleep. Bulma, I..." He cleared his throat, shifted Trunks in his arms before standing to place him very carefully into the hospital bassinet. Then he sat down next to her on the bed, head hanging on his shoulders, before looking up at her pensively.

"What?" She asked him.

"My contract is void. Piccolo let me go. I'm free."

She stared at him.

"No shit?"

"No shit," he said breezily, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before being replaced by a tense grimace. "I...I don't want to put you out, but...I don't have anywhere else to go...I could sleep on the couch—"

"Vegeta, stay with us. There's no other place in the world for you." She put her hand around his and drew him down to lay beside her.

Nose to nose for the first time in almost a year, they stared at each other hesitantly.

She ran her hand along his jaw and then tapped his nose. He blinked.

"I didn't think I'd ever be able to do this again," she whispered, nervously avoiding his gaze. "I...I want to be with you." Her voice was barely legible.

"I want to be with you, too," he whispered back, his roughened voice winding around her like a hot embrace.

"Are we...okay?"

He wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her gently, resting his chin on the top of her head. "We'll take it one day at a time."

They dozed in each other's arms until Trunks small cries roused them.

Vegeta got out of bed to bring him to his mother to eat.

"Did Eighteen leave?" Bulma asked tiredly as she worked her sore body to sit up against the head of the bed.

Vegeta snorted as he delicately handed Trunks over, sitting back onto the sofa and running his hand through his hair as Bulma worked to unbutton the front of her hospital gown.

"Yeah. Out for a night on the town with the Lord of Hell, of all people."

"What?!"

"You and her aren't...with each other...are you?" He leveled at her a glare full of dark promise, an unconscious reminder of the sheer, intimidating power of Black Vengeance.

"What?" She looked at him confused. "Oh." She stared at him blankly. "Oh, no. We're just friends. Why..." She grinned. "Oh, I think you two are just going to get along wonderfully."

He growled and dropped his head between his arms again, trying to wrap his head around what it meant to be free.

"And who knows? Maybe she'll bring Piccolo home and we'll be one big happy family like in a sitcom!"

Vegeta sprang up from the sofa, trapped her between his arms, and shut her up with a kiss.

 

XIV. Epilogue

  
_The city is abuzz with news this week about the timely discovery of not just one, but two heirs to two legendary West City businesses. Both the daughter of Capsule Corporation founder Dr. Trunks Briefs, and the son of Vegeta Ouji, founder of Ouji Corporation Automobiles, have not only been discovered to be surviving, but also, extraordinarily, a family. The heiress bore a son this past January._

_The news of their survival has shocked—and, frankly, excited—many West City figure heads, including recently inaugurated Mayor Shenhan, who has vowed to clean up West City of any lingering Red Ribbon influence, which has so far included a massive and successful overhaul of the city budget and a sweeping change in the police department and city council._

_'If Mr. Ouji and Ms. Briefs would be open to talks,' said Mayor Shenhan at a press conference last Friday, 'then West City would be more than willing to accommodate the resurrection of its oldest businesses, its historical legacy, and the two people who have, unfortunately, been thrown under the bus and literally left for dead under past administrations.'_

_When asked whether or not a revival of Capsule Corp. or Ouji Corp. was in the future, Ms. Briefs -who holds three doctorate degrees and has been a tenured physicist at Penguin Village University since she was 25, following in her famous father's footsteps- admitted the couple was thinking about reestablishing their parent's respective industries in West City._

_But just this past week, news has spread like wild fire that the couple has begun consolidating a research team and drawing up the paperwork, with the help of leading West City lawyer Nappa Norimaki, to merge their parents companies into one, with Ms. Briefs, rumor has it, as the head of Research and Development, and Mr. Ouji as Chief Executive._

_Mr. Ouji, a respected lawyer himself, told the West City Weekly this Monday that he and Ms. Briefs wouldn't be doing anything that could interfere with the safety or comfort of their family—an understandable position after twenty years of exile and invisibility under previous Red Ribbon-influenced city councils._

_The pair is now living in the Crossroads District, raising their infant son, Trunks Vegeta Ouji._

_When asked about her son at this Monday's press conference, Ms. Briefs smiled and said, 'We wanted to endow our son with the courageous qualities of the men in our families, as a statement that not Trunks, not Vegeta, nor I will be swept under the rug by anyone—not even West City's most feared and most ruthless mobsters—as evidenced by our survival, and their dissolution.'_

_Mr. Ouji replied, 'But, most importantly, he inherited his purple hair from his mother... along with the extraordinary ability to give my life meaning.'_

_The pair are set to marry in the fall._


End file.
